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WAR SAVINGS STAMPS 



ISSUED BY THE UNITED STATES TKEASURY DEPT. 

Drawn by Charles Livingston Bull. 



WAR READINGS 



PREPARED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE 

NATIONAL BOARD FOR HISTORICAL SERVICE 



ILLUSTRATED 



CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 

NEW YOR^ CHICAGO BOSTON 



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Copyright, 1918, by 
CHAELES SCRIBNER'S SONS 



OCT -4'!a":6 




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PREFACE 

The readings included in this volume have been selected by 
Mrs. Dana C. Munro, assisted by Mrs. Christian Gauss, Mrs. 
George A. Hulett, and Mrs. Frank A. Fetter, all of Princeton. 
For this purpose they have read literally hundreds of volumes 
written about the War by actual participants and have chosen 
the most interesting parts. 

They have attempted to select the best verses written about 
the War and a few patriotic poems which every American knows, 
or should know. They have tried to illustrate as many phases 
of the War and of the activities connected with it, as it is possible 
to do in such a small volume as this. They also sought out pas- 
sages which would show the heroic deeds of those who have been 
aiding behind the lines. With a few exceptions, all the accounts 
have been written by those actually engaged in the service in some 
capacity. As Ruskin wrote in "Stones of Venice," "the only his- 
tory worth reading is that written at the time of which it treats, 
the history of what was done and seen, heard out of the mouths 
of the men who did and saw. One fresh draft of such history 
is worth more than a thousand volumes of abstracts and reason- 
ings, and suppositions and theories." 

Horrors and details of suffering have been omitted as out of 
place in a volume intended for use in scho6ls. For the same reason, 
some slight omissions and changes have been made in some of 
the selections. Also in some passages parts of less interest have 
been left out in order to make it possible to include the remainder 
in this volume. 

Authors and publishers have been generous in giving permis- 
sion for the use of their writings and books for this patriotic pur- 
pose. Only a very few refused permission and, consequently. 



iv PREFACE 

almost all of the passages which were originally selected as the 
best are in this volume. We hope that the accounts here given 
will lead many to read the volumes from which these are taken. 
Practically all of the books published in English by participants 
before May 1, 1918, have been examined, and a wise and careful 
selection has been made of the best descriptions for boys and girls. 

An interesting series of reproductions of war posters that have 
been issued in the Allied countries at various times, has been 
distributed through the book. While not illustrating the text, 
they are of great interest as an expression of certain phases of the 
war spirit in the countries where they appeared. 

The board expresses its gratitude to Doctor E. C. Richardson, 
to Doctor A. E. Morse, and other officials of the Princeton Uni- 
versity Library, for their constant assistance; to Professor R. C. 
Clark, of the University of Oregon, for his painstaking care in 
preparing the introductory notes and for reading the proof; above 
all to Mrs. Munro and the other ladies who in addition to their 
other "War work" have given their time and labor so unstint- 
ingly. 

For the National Board for Historical Service. 



CONTENTS 

PAGB 

The Call RE. Vernede 1 

A Letter to the Boys of America. . .Edward N. Teall 2 

The Bells of Malines Henry van Dyke 5 

The Bombardment of Antwerp Edward Eyre Hunt 7 

The Tryst Edith Wharton 13 

Place de la Concorde Florence Earle Coates 14 

Stories of France at War : . Wythe Williams 16 

To France Herbert Jones 37 

In Flight Before the Germans Frances Wilson Huard 38 

Rheims Cathedral — 1914 Grace Hazard Conkling ... 47 

Saniez Gilbert Nobbs 48 

The Name of France Henry van Dyke 51 

Under Shell-Fire at Dunkirk Ellen N. LaMotte 52 

Vive la France Charlotte Holmes Crawford 56 

Little Orphaned Allies Eleanor Franklin Egan ... 58 

A Scrap of Paper Henry van Dyke 62 

Kitchener's Mob James Norman Hall 63 

Langemarck Wilfrid Campbell 74 

Private Peat Harold R. Peat 78 

Thomas of the Lightheart Owen Seaman 89 

The Beloved Captain Donald Hankey 90 

A Letter from the Front Henry Newbolt 95 

In Flanders Fields John McRae 96 

London Children in the Air Raid of 

June 13, 1917 Olive Hope Constance 97 

Retreat Wilfrid Wilson Gibson 100 

Lines Written in Surrey, 1917 George Herbert Clarke 100 

The House at Zagora Will Irwin 101 

c 

With the Alpini Will Irwin 108 

The Singing Soldier Lewis R. Freeman HI 

Italy at War E. Alexander Powell 119 

V 



vl CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The Italians at Bay. G. Ward Price 122 

"Liberty Enlightening the 'Wonu)".. Henry van Dyke 127 

Good Citizenship Grover Cleveland 128 

Battle Hymn of the Republic Julia Ward Howe 129 

"Our Village, " Somewhere in France . Sterling Heilig 130 

The Flag Goes by Henry Holcomb Bennett. . . 132 

Christmas Day "Over There" J. Edward Newton 133 

I Have a Rendezvous with Death. . .Alan Seeger 138 

On the Monastir Road Herbert Corey 139 

The Spires of Oxford Winifred M. Letts 144 

Trenching at Gallipoli John Gallishaw 145 

In the Trenches Maurice Hewlett 161 

War Flying By a Pilot 163 

Tales of the British Air Service. . . . William A. Bishop 174 

High Adventure James Norman Hall 178 

A Civilian's Wild Flight over the 

French Front G. H. Perris 181 

Ambulance No. 10 Leslie Buswell 186 

With a Field Ambulance at Ypres . . . William Boyd 194 

An Ambulance Driver in France. . . .Charles Bernard Nordhoff. 200 

The Red Cross Spirit Speaks John Finley 204 

The Y. M. C. A. at the Front Francis B. Sayre 206 

Princeton, May, 1917 Alfred Noyes 210 

From Dartmouth to the Darda- 
nelles — ^A Midshipman's Log 212 

The "William P. Frye" Jeanne Robert Foster 231 

Torpedoed Albert Kinross 233 

The Soldier Rupert Brooke 242 

The Gray Mailed Fist Mary Roberts Rinehart . . . 243 

The Searchlights Alfred Noyes 250 

Camouflaged Will Irwin 252 

The Greatest Weapon Thomas Lomax Hunter. . . 259 

Rations: A Mathematical Problem. . . Gilbert Nobbs 261 

Food to Fight on L. Lodian 263 



WAR READINGS 



THE CALL^ 

R. E. VERNEDE 

Lad, with the merry smile and the eyes 

Quick as a hawk's and clear as the day. 
You, who have counted the game the prize. 

Here is the game of games to play. 

Never a goal — the captains say — 
Matches the one that's needed now: 

Put the old blazer and cap away — 
England's colors await your brow. 

Man, with the square-set jaws and chin. 

Always, it seems, you have moved to your end 

Sure of yourself, intent to win 

Fame and wealth and the power to bend — 
All that you've made you're called to spend. 

All that you've sought you're asked to miss — 
What's ambition compared with this. 

That a man lay down his life for his friend? 

Dreamer, oft in your glancing mind 

Brave with drinking the faerie brew. 
You have smitten the ogres blind 

When the fair Princess cried out to you. 

Dreamer, what if your dreams are true? 
Yonder's a bayonet, magical, since 

Him whom it strikes, the blade sinks through — 
Take it and strike for England, Prince! 

> Prom "War Poems and Other Verses," copyright, 1917, by William Heine- 
mann. Used by permission. 

1 



WAR READINGS 

Friend with the face so hard and worn, 

The Devil and you have sometime met. 
And now you curse the day you were born 

And want one boon of God — to forget. 

Ah, but I know, and yet — and yet — 
I think, out there in the shrapnel spray. 

You shall stand up and not regret 
The life that gave so splendid a day. 

Lover of ease, you've lolled and forgot 

All the things that you meant to right; 
Life has been soft for you, has it not? 

What offer does England make to-night? 

This — to toil and to march and to fight 
As never you've dreamed since your life began; 

This — to carry the steel-swept height. 
This — to know that you've played the man ! 

Brothers, brothers, the time is short. 

Nor soon again shall it so betide 
That a man may pass from the common sort 

Sudden and stand by the heroes' side. 

Are there some that being named yet bide? 
Hark once more to the clarion call — 

Sounded by him who deathless died — 
"This day England expects you all." 



A LETTER TO THE BOYS OF AMERICA ^ 

edward n. teall 
Dear Lads: 

These are great times for American boys. American! The 
word brings your shoulders back, head up, chin out, and starts a 
thumping under your ribs. 

1 From St. Nicholas, copyright, 1917, by The Century Co. Used by permission. 



A LETTER TO THE BOYS OF AMERICA 3 

You are. not yet of military age. Perhaps you wish you were 
older. How proud and happy you would be to shoulder a gun 
and go marching away, following the Flag to France! 

You do not need to be reminded that the life of a soldier to- 
day is not what you thought it would be only three years ago. 
Then you were only one of the kiddies "playing soldiers." Now 
that you are twelve, or fourteen, or sixteen, you know more 
about what soldiering really is. 

You are taking your small part. Your Boy Scout drills and 
hikes have taken on a new meaning to you. You have been 
soldiers, perhaps, in the garden army. In one way or another 
you are contributing your helpful mite, but you chafe because 
there is so little for you to do; the boy's share is so small, so in- 
significant. 

Boys, your part is not a small one! It is vitally important. 
The service you can render now in preparing for the service you 
will surely be called upon to render in a few years is precious to 
the nation. 

Wars do not end when the fighting stops. The effect of this 
incalculable destruction of lives and property will weigh heavily 
upon the world long after the peace treaties are signed. Where 
men have destroyed, other men must rebuild. The whole world 
is hurt; the whole world must be healed. All the nations pay 
for the madness of one. 

War-torn France must be restored. Shell-scarred fields must 
be made fertile again. Towns must be rebuilt. Commerce must 
be reorganized, and on the eastern front there is work for many 
hands — where the count of hands fit for the work will be piti- 
fully small. Nor is the task of reconstruction to be measured 
only by the physical toil of men's hands. Institutions of politi- 
cal life have been wrecked. Where autocracy and bureaucracy, 
all forms of selfishness in government, have been overthrown, 
new forms of free government — "government of the people, by 
the people, for the people," — must be established. Free America 
must help to teach the world — teach by example. 



4 WAR READINGS 

Free America can take and hold that proud position only if 
the sum of her citizenship is sound and wise, and it can be so 
only if each citizen contributes soundness and wisdom. Their 
opposites — selfishness, indifference, discontent, unreadiness to 
give up one's own ease and comfort in the interest of the general 
health and prosperity — may also develop, and in that day, you, 
the boys of this day, are to be the responsible voting citi- 
zens ! 

Therefore it behooves you now to prepare ! There is no vague- 
ness about your present duty. 

America will need, more than ever, men of trained minds. 
Therefore you must study! Not for marks, not just to "keep 
up with the class" — but to learn, to lay the foundations of use- 
ful knowledge. 

America will need men who know the past; who know why 
governments prosper and do good or fail or fall; men who can use 
their votes so as to give America the best possible governors. 
To become such men you must study history; not names and 
dates only, but the "reasons" of history. 

America will need men who can make just laws; men who can 
preach from the pulpit; men who can speak from the platform 
or in the halls of legislature and Congress with such power and 
clearness as to make good counsel prevail; men who can write 
articles and books that will counteract folly and error and will 
spread truth and wisdom. To be such men who can build roads 
and bridges, factories and colleges; men who can run railroads 
and industries; men who know the nature of soils and how to 
make them bear the best crops. To do these mighty works, 
men must be masters of science. To master science you must 
conquer mathematics — arithmetic, algebra, geometry. They are 
not dull exercises, they are the seeds of achievement. You boys 
are planting them— or are not planting them ! — to-day. 

America will need strong, healthy men; and sound bodies are 
the natural resting-places of sound minds. Therefore your games 
and sports are honest means of preparation for the future. Do 



THE BELLS OF MALINES 5 

not play to win. Play to learn self-control, generosity in victory, 
manliness in defeat. 

America will need every last part of her rich resources. The 
nickel you spend for some little indulgence is only a nickel, but it 
is one of the nickels that, assembled, make power. Therefore 
now is the time to learn, and to practise, intelligent thrift. 

These are small services, but they are real services. You 
fellows, each doing his bit, however insignificant it seems, are 
all together a mighty power. Just what you make of to-day, 
America will make of to-morrow. To-day more than ever be- 
fore, the commonplaces of good counsel, the homely philosophy 
of the old proverbs of the people, have a meaning that bites 
into the mind and turns ideas into actions. 

So just think over these few plain but definite suggestions, and 
God bless you all, and, through you, America. 



THE BELLS OF MALINES ^ 

(August 17, 1914) 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

The gabled roofs of old Malines 

Are russet-red and gray and green. 

And o'er them in the sunset hour 

Looms, dark and huge, St. Rombold's tower. 

High in that rugged nest concealed. 

The sweetest bells that ever pealed. 

The deepest bells that ever rung, 

The lightest bells that ever sung. 

Are waiting for the master's hand 

To fling their music o'er the land. 

iPronounce, Ma-len'. From "The Red Flower," copyright, 1916, 19x7, by 
Charles Scribner's Sons. 



WAR READINGS 

And shall they ring to-night, Malines? 
In nineteen hundred and fourteen, 
The frightful year, the year of woe. 
When fire and blood and rapine flow 
Across the land from lost Liege, 
Storm-driven by the German rage? 
The other carillons^ have ceased: 
Fallen is Hasselt, fallen Diest, 
From Ghent and Bruges no voices come, 
Antwerp is silent, Brussels dumb. 

But in thy belfry, O Malines, 

The master of the bells unseen 

Has climbed to where the keyboard stands — 

To-night his heart is in his hands ! 

Once more, before invasion's hell 

Breaks round the tower he loves so well. 

Once more he strikes the well-worn keys. 

And sends aerial harmonies 

Far floating through the twilight dim 

In patriot song and holy hymn, 

O listen, burghers of Malines ! 
Soldier and workman, pale beguine,'' 
And mother with a trembling flock 
Of children clinging to thy frock — 
Look up and listen, listen all. 
What tunes are these that gently fall 
Around you like a benison? 
"The Flemish Lion," " Braban^onne," 
*'0 brave Liege," and all the airs 
That Belgium in her bosom bears. 

Ring up, ye silvery octaves high. 
Whose notes like drcling swallows fly; 
' Carillons = sets of fixed bells tuned to play melodies. ^Ba gen' =a nun 



THE BOMBARDMENT OF ANTWERP 

And ring, each old sonorous bell — 
"Jesu," "Maria," "Michael!" 
Weave in and out, and high and low. 
The magic music that you know. 
And let it float and flutter down 
To cheer the heart of the troubled town. 
Ring out, "Salvator," lord of all — 
"Roland" in Ghent may hear thee call! 

O brave bell-music of Malines, 

In this dark hour how much you mean! 

The dreadful night of blood and tears 

Sweeps down on Belgium, but she hears 

Deep in her heart the melody 

Of songs she learned when she was free. 

She will not falter, faint, nor fail. 

But fight until her rights prevail. 

And all her ancient belfries ring 

"The Flemish Lion," "God save the King!' 



THE BOMBARDMENT OF ANTWERP ^ 

EDWARD EYRE HUNT 

"War Bread," from which this selection is taken, is the narrative of 
the personal experiences of the American representative on the Com- 
mission for the Relief in Belgium in charge of the work in the province of 
Antwerp. At present he is working with the Red Cross in Italy. 

I was awakened by a tremendous roar and a shock which seemed 
to lift the house from its foundations. Immediately there came 
a distant boom ! a shrill snarling whistle, then another explosion 
which pounded the air like storm. 

Boom — wheeikkkkkkkk Bang — gggg ! Boom — wheeEEEEEEI 

— KKKK BANGGGG ! Every pane of glass in the house blew 

'From "War Bread," copyright, 1916, by Henry Holt & Co. Used by per- 
mission. 



8 WAR READINGS 

out in the chaos which followed the bursting of that fourth bomb. 
It had hit directly across the street, less than thirty-five feet from 
where I was hurrying into my clothes. I could hear screams 
and sobs; then the sound of people rushing by the house, and 
the crash of glass which littered the sidewalks, splintering to bits 
as the people ran. But above every other sound clamored the 
continuous mad-dog snarling of the German shells. Boom — whee 
BANG — hoom — boom — BangGG! My watch read 12.05, Belgian 
time. 

From the cellar came a frightened, unintelligible voice. 

"Everybody all right?" I yelled, strapping on my belt of gold- 
pieces and flinging on my clothes. 

"All right!" answered Thompson shrilly from the next room. 
"Y-yes," called Weigle from up-stairs. And we bolted for the 
cellar. 

There, fully dressed even to his overcoat, was the Vice-Consul. 
His teeth were chattering. He stood ankle-deep in coke in a small 
fuel closet under the stairs, which we Americans had entirely 
overlooked in our inspection. A single candle-flame lighted the 
place. "Sh-sh-shut the door," he begged. "Where is the 
g-g-g-gas meter? We must turn off the g-g-g-gas meter. It isn't 
safe. . . ." 

... To my astonishment, the cannonade gave me an intense 
feeling of exaltation. It was like the exhilaration of fever. I was 
convinced that we should all be killed, so I wrote on the walls of 
our cyclone-cellar the names and addresses of Thompson, de Mees- 
ter Weigle, and myself. My senses were keenly alive to danger, 
but there was a strange joy in the thought that life was to be 
obliterated in a mad chaos of flame and steel and thunder. Death 
seemed suddenly the great adventure; the supreme experience. 
And there was something splendid, like music, in the incessant, 
insane snarl of the shells and the blasts of the explosions. 

Thompson and I ran up-stairs and brought down mattresses and 
blankets, then we all lay down side by side in the coke, with the 
flimsy door shut to keep out stray shells. The shell-fire at first 



THE BOMBARDMENT OF ANTWERP 9 

had excited; now it seemed to soothe me, and I went quietly to 
sleep. Occasionally I was awakened by the Vice-Consul and 
Weigle arguing whether or not we were in the direct line of fire, 
and whether or not the last shell had burst nearer our house than 
the first. Outside, fugitives fled sobbing along the streets; but 
I slept, indifferent to them. 

Such sleep is like drowning. It has the double effect of a stimu- 
lant and a narcotic. Pictures of my past life rushed out of the 
dark in streams and flooded my sleep with bright and sombre 
visions. I saw them, but I slept. . . . 

At four o'clock in the morning Thompson and I left the others 
and went out into the Avenue du Sud. Refugees, most of them 
women, were hurrying by in every direction, half-dressed, only half 
sane, and horribly afraid. Many, no doubt, were crouching in the 
cellars, but most of the people ran. Old and young, in little coveys 
of fours, fives, half-dozens, dozens, ran along the sidewalks, slipping 
and crashing over the broken glass, making a terrifying and un- 
earthly racket as they ran. Whenever a shell snarled unusually 
near, the groups fell cowering on hands and knees against the near- 
est houses. Women covered their heads with their shawls and 
waited breathless and motionless for the smash and roar of the 
explosion. I saw a shell burst in the avenue within a few yards 
of some of these fugitives. A woman dropped her baby and ran 
on without it. Two old men, dragging a heavy bundle of house- 
hold goods between them, abandoned it in the street and fled 
screaming. A priest ran plump into me, completely unnerved. 
The shell had struck just at the corner and had torn a hole through 
curb and cobblestones and earth three feet deep and seven feet in 
diameter. . . . 

I stood in the middle of the street and watched the gray sky 
in the hope of seeing a shell. The idea was absurd, yet I felt an 
odd sense of being cheated of part of the spectacle. The air seemed 
full of steel. I counted three explosions a minute: I wanted to 
see something. One could hear the shells so easily, it seemed 
ridiculous not to see them. ... 



10 WAR READINGS 

What a Shrapnel Shell Did 

. . . Daylight brought comfort, but the panic continued. The 
exodus seemed endless. Little carts, wheelbarrows, baby-car- 
riages, Flemish milk-wagons drawn by dogs, two or three old 
cabs, and an occasional farm wagon piled high with goods, went 
by us. Old men and women, invalids, cripples, and young chil- 
dren were carried past in the ghastly rout. A wrinkled old woman 
came by leading a cow. Dogs were howling everywhere. There 
was the incessant rattle and crash of broken glass on the sidewalks 
and in the streets as the fugitives stumbled past. But one sound 
dominated everything. It was to left of us, to right of us, be- 
hind us, before us, and overhead. It was the smack and boom 
of the big guns, and the everlasting crazy uproar of the bursting 
shells. 

The air was bitter with powder-smoke. Later I smelled kero- 
sene. The Germans were shelling us with shrapnel and incendiary 
bombs. Fires began to shoot up in the heart of our section. 
There were heavier explosions. A fifth house in our block was 
struck, and the entire front was riddled with lead — great jagged 
holes showing in woodwork and bricks and plaster. The house 
looked like a colander. 

We did not know it then, but the bombardment was systematic 
as a game of checkers. The city was blocked off on checker- 
board charts; each battery was given its share of work to do, its 
time for rest and refreshment, and square by square the Germans 
shelled. 

Hours dragged by. With methodical regularity the German 
steel was pumped into the doomed city, except for brief pauses 
once every hour, when the artillery corps stopped to cool the 
guns. It was almost amusing to think of the calm young Prus- 
sian lieutenants of artillery — the same sort as those I had seen 
in Berlin two days before — now five miles or more away from us, 
quietly and unemotionally directing that cyclone of shells. . . . 

Fire slackened at noon and we had visitors. Our front door- 



THE BOMBARDMENT OF ANTWERP 11 

bell jangled violently, and in came Horace Green, cool and col- 
lected as always, but keenly sensitive to the horrors of the situa- 
tion. He confirmed the worst fears of Weigle and the Vice-Consul 
by telling us that our house was in the direct line of fire, and 
that no shells had as yet fallen in the centre of the city. While 
he was talking, the door-bell jangled again. Thompson an- 
swered this time, and I heard his piping voice raised in hearty 
greeting. "Hello, Jimmie," he yelled, "how are you? Come 
right in. Glad to see you." 

"It's Jimmie Hare — James H. Hare — photographer for Les- 
lie's Weekly," explained Green. 

I had never met Hare, but I knew of him as the veteran pho- 
tographer of a dozen wars; seventy-two years old, they said, and 
spry and bold as a boy. So I left Green and ran up-stairs. 
Thompson had vanished completely. There was no sign of Hare. 
I went to the door and threw it open. A German shell whizzed 
close overhead; the Germans had taken only half an hour off for 
lunch ! 

But where was Hare? 

A little gray man, about five feet tall, wearing a boy's cap and 
a brown Norfolk jacket, was hopping about on the other side of 
the street in a litter of broken window-glass, bricks, and plaster 
dislodged by the shells. He had a small black box in his hand, 
and he was sighting it at the house. The box was a camera. 
The little man was Hare. 

" Hello ! Hello !" he yelled in the tone of an enraptured camera 
fiend. " Hold that ! Fine ! Hold that pose ! Duck your head 
behind the door! Great!" He pointed the camera. Boom! 
A German shell burst only a quarter of a block away. Hare 
dodged, but kept the camera pointed. " Hold that pose ! " he 
yelled again. "Look scared!" I obeyed without an effort. 
" Fine ! Great ! " he said again. Snap ! The picture was taken, 
and we ran for the cellar together. . . . 

We learned from our visitors that the American Consul-General, 
Vice-Consul, and the entire Consulate staff had fled from the city 



12 WAR READINGS 

to Ghent. What were we going to do ? We were, going to stay in 
Antwerp, and we intended to remain in our house until we were 
burned out or shelled out. 

We had not long to wait. Our visitors had scarcely left us, and 
we were amusing ourselves in our little cyclone-cellar, when our 
billet ^ arrived. I had just completed a drawing of Weigle and the 
Vice-Consul lying on the coke. There was the familiar dull, dis- 
tant boom, and the snarling wheeeeieieiekkk, but the blast that 
followed was exactly over our heads, and it sounded like all the 
thunders in the universe rolled into one. The shell had exploded 
directly over us. It seemed to bring down half the house about 
our ears. 

Thompson and I raced up-stairs with a bucket of water in 
either hand, ready to put out any fire which might have started. 
We could not see a thing. The plaster dust was thicker than 
smoke, and the stair-well was choked with debris, but luckily for 
us, part of the wall had been blown out, and the air soon cleared 
sufficiently for us to take stock of our situation. 

Two floors and a part of a third were completely wrecked; five 
rooms and a hall in all. The shell had gone through three thick 
brick walls. In the ruin was a broken couch, a smashed ward- 
robe, shivered mirrors, chairs, beds, and bed-linen, a collection of 
stamps, a rosary, a crucifix, and quantities of small, intimate 
possessions of no intrinsic worth, but great personal value. The 
walls were scarred and splintered. There was an acrid smell of 
powder-smoke in the air, gray plaster dust covered everything, 
but no fire was visible. 

Our door-bell rang sharply, and we ran down-stairs to find our 
kind Belgian neighbors standing at the door with buckets of water 
in their hands, all ready to help us. There was plenty of coward- 
ice in Antwerp during the bombardment, but I think gratefully 
of the unselfish bravery of those Belgians who were so ready 
to help the strangers. 

» Billet = turn. 



THE TRYST 1 

EDITH WHARTON 

I said to the woman: Whence do you come. 
With your bundle in your hand? 
She said: In the North I made my home. 
Where slow streams fatten the fruitful loam. 
And the endless wheat-fields run like foam 
To the edge of the endless sand. 

I said: What look have your houses there. 

And the rivers that glass your sky? 

Do the steeples that call your people to prayer 

Lift fretted fronts to the silver air. 

And the stones of your streets, are they washed and fair 

When the Sunday folk go by? 

My house is ill to find, she said. 

For it has no roof but the sky; 

The tongue is torn from the steeple-head, 

The streets are foul with the slime of the dead. 

And all the rivers run poison-red 

With the bodies drifting by. 

I said: Is there none to come at your call 
In all this throng astray? 
They shot my husband against a wall. 
And my child (she said), too little to crawl. 
Held up its hands to catch the ball 
When the gun-muzzle turned its way. 

I said: There are countries far from here 

Where the friendly church-bells call. 

And fields where the rivers run cool and clear, 

iFrom "The Book of the Homeless," copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's 
Sons. 



13 



14 WAR READINGS 

And streets where the weary may walk without fear. 
And a quiet bed, with a green tree near, 
To sleep at the end of it all. 

She answered: Your land is too remote, 

And what if I chanced to roam 

When the bells fly back to the steeples' throat, 

And the sky with banners is all afloat. 

And the streets of my city rock like a boat 

With the tramp of her men come home? 

I shall crouch by the door till the bolt is down. 
And then go in to my dead. 
Where my husband fell I will put a stone. 
And mother a child instead of my own, 
And stand and laugh on my bare hearth-stone 
When the King rides by, she said. 
Paris, August 27, 1915. 



PLACE DE LA CONCORDE i 

(August 14, 1914) 

FLORENCE EARLE COATES 

(Since the bombardment of Strasburg, August 14, 1870, her statue 
in Paris, representing Alsace, has been draped in mourning by the French 
people.) 

Near where the royal victims fell 

In days gone by, caught in the swell 

Of a ruthless tide 

Of human passion, deep and wide: 

There where we two 

A Nation's later sorrow knew — 

To-day, O friend ! I stood 

Amid a self-ruled multitude 

iProm " Collected Poems," copyright, 1916, by The Houghton MifiQin Co. By 
special arrangement with the publishers. 




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EN ALSACE- LORPALNE 

'bujsde 200 Lots 

offer ts pdr Les drtisLes, homm€s de LeLLres.-musiciens conLemporains 
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Drawn by E. Friant. 



PLACE DE LA CONCORDE 15 

That by nor sound nor word 

Betrayed how mightily its heart was stirred. 

A memory Time never could efface — 

A memory of Grief — 

Like a great Silence brooded o'er the place; 

And men breathed hard, as seeking for relief 

From an emotion strong 

That would not cry, though held in check too long. 

One felt that joy drew near — 

A joy intense that seemed itself to fear — 

Brightening in eyes that had been dull. 

As all with feeling gazed. 

Then one stood at the statue's base, and spoke — 

Men needed not to ask what word; 

Each in his breast the message heard, 

Writ for him by Despair, 

That evermore in moving phrase 

Breathes from the Invalides and Pere Lachaise — • 

Vainly it seemed, alas ! 

But now, France looking on the image there, 

Hope gave her back the lost Alsace. 

A deeper hush fell on the crowd; 

A sound — the lightest — seemed too loud 

(Would, friend, you had been there !) 

As to that form the speaker rose. 

Took from her, fold on fold. 

The mournful crape, gray-worn and old. 

Her, proudly, to disclose, 

And with the touch of tender care 

That fond emotion speaks, 

'Mid tears that none could quite command. 

Placed the Tricolor in her hand. 

And kissed her on both cheeks ! 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR^ 

BY WYTHE WILLIAMS 

At the outbreak of the war, in 1914, Mr. Williams was the Paris corre- 
spondent of the New York Times. In order to reach the battle-front he 
served two months on a motor ambulance. Later he was admitted within 
the French Unes. The stories selected here are from his personal experi- 
ences. 

General Joffre ^ 

General Joffre, at the beginning of the war, had been head 
of the army for only three years. He had received his supreme 
command as a compromise between political parties. No one 
knew anything about him — he had a good military record and 
was considered " safe." But at the last grand manoeuvres he had 
given the nation a sudden jar by unceremoniously and without 
comment dismissing five gold-laced generals. 

On one of the first days of the war, at four in the morning, I 
was walking home— all taxis were mobilized — after a night 
passed in writing cable copy for my newspaper concerning the 
momentous tragedy that faced the world. 

I was accompanied by a journalistic confrere; our route led 
past the Foreign Office, where the Cabinet of France had been 
sitting all night in war council. It was just daybreak. The 
sun was beginning to glint on the waters of the Seine. We walked 
and halted, without speaking, but in common thought, before 
the tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte. The sun suddenly broke in 
splendor over the golden dome. 

"It seems like a good omen," I said to my friend. 

"Yes — if France had a Napoleon to-day ..." was his reply. 

He was a newcomer to Paris. 

" Tell me about the Commander-in-Chief," he asked me. " Who 
is Joffre, anyway?" 

I told him what everybody knew, which was almost nothing. 

1 From "Passed by the Censor," copyright, 1916, by E. P. Dutton & Co. Used 
by permission. 

2 Pronounce Zho'fr. 



16 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 17 

Now let me shift the picture from the tomb of Napoleon on 
a sunny morning in August, It is a bleak day on the undulating 
plains of Champagne — a few kilometres to the rear of the battle- 
lines — where the French had been steadily gaining ground for 
several weeks. Only the week before they brilliantly stormed 
the hills where the Germans had intrenched after the battle of 
the Marne, and they captured every position. 

A fine drizzle had been falling since early morning, making the 
ground soggy and slippery. Along the roads the crowds of 
peasants and inhabitants of near-by villages are sloshing toward 
the great open plain. But all the roads are barred by sentries 
and they are turned back. No civilian eyes, except those of a 
half-dozen newspaper men, may see what is to happen there. 
Yes, something is to happen there — something impressive — some- 
thing soul-stirring, but there are to be no cheering spectators, 
no heraldry, and no pomp. 

It is to be a military pageant, without the crowd. It is a 
change from the antebellum military show at Longchamps on 
the fourteenth of July, when the tricolor waved everywhere, 
when the President of the Republic and the generals of the army 
in brilliant uniforms reviewed the troops of France, and all the 
great world was there to see. 

This is to be a review of the troops who took the hills back 
there a little way, sweeping on and up to victory while a murder- 
ous German fire poured into them, dropping them by thousands. 
Through that clump of trees sticking up in the mud, a,re little 
crosses marking the graves of the dead. 

Fifteen thousand of the victorious troops will pass in review to- 
day before the Commander-in-Chief of the Allied armies. Down 
across the field you can hear the distant notes of a bugle. They 
are taken up by other buglers at various points. Then across the 
field comes a regimental band. The players have been in the 
charge, too — with rifles instead of musical instruments. This is 
their first chance to play in months — and play they do. You 
hear the martial notes of the "Marseillaise" floating across the 



18 ■ WAR READINGS 

field, played with a force that must have been heard in the 
German lines. 

The regiments take up their positions at one side of the field. 
General Langle de Carry, commander of the army that did the 
Champagne fighting, with only a half-dozen officers, take posi- 
tions at the reviewing stand. The reviewing stand is a hillock 
of mud. Both general and officers wear the long overcoats of the 
light "horizon blue," the new color of the French army. 

A man emerges from the line of trees behind the group, and 
ploughs his way across the mud. He is large and bulky. He 
plants his feet firmly at each step — splashing the mud out in all 
directions. He wears a short jacket of the "horizon blue" and no 
overcoat. He wears the old red trousers of the beginning of the 
war. His hat, around which you can see the golden band of oak- 
leaves signifying that he is a general, is pulled low over his eyes. 
Drops of rain are on his grizzled mustache. A leather belt is 
about his powerful body, but he wears no sword. 

Langle de Carry and his officers whirl about quickly at his 
approach. Every hand is raised in salute. The bulky man 
touches the visor of his hat in response — then plants both his 
large, ungloved fists upon his hips. His feet are spread slightly 
apart. He speaks to de Carry in a low voice. As you have al- 
ready guessed, this big man is Joffre. 

You were told at the beginning of the war that Joffre was a 
little fat man — like Napoleon. That is not true. JofFre is a big 
man. He is even a tall man, but does not look so because of his 
bulk. Few men possess, at his age, such a powerful or so healthy 
a body. That is why he can cover so many miles of battle-front 
in his racing-auto every day. That is why he shows not the 
slightest sign of the war. 

No time is lost in conversation. The bugles blew again and 
the regiments of heroes began their march past the muddy review- 
ing stand. Even in their battle-stained uniforms, every regiment 
looked "smart." When they came abreast of Joffre, stolidly and 
solidly standing a step in advance of the others, the long line of 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 19 

rifles raised in salute is as straight as ever that of a German regi- 
ment on parade at Potsdam, despite deep and sHppery mud. 

After the infantry came the famous "seventy-fives" with the 
same machine-like precision that before the war we always asso- 
ciated with Germans. The review ends with a regiment of heavy 
cavalry — cuirassiers — coming at full charge, rising high in their 
stirrups, with swords aloft, and breaking into a battle yell when 
they passed "Father Joffre," as he is called by his soldiers. 

Through it all he stands motionless, feet apart, one hand planted 
on his hip, raising the other to the visor of his hat, peering be- 
neath it straight ahead with unblinking eyes. As the men pass 
this general without a sword, with no medals, no gold braid, no 
overcoat — and in old red trousers — the rain pelting upon him, the 
look on their faces is one of adoration. It matters not to them 
that there are no cheering crowds, no crashing bands, no gala 
atmosphere. The one eye in France that they care about is upon 
them. 

The long line then forms facing him, and the men to receive 
decorations advance. One of them — a private — is to receive the 
medaille militaire, the greatest war decoration in the world, for it 
can only be given to privates, or to generals commanding armies 
who have already received the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. 
Joffre himself only won it after the battle of the Marne. 

The private now to receive the medal is brought before the 
Commander-in-Chief, who pins it upon his breast. Joffre throws 
both his great arms about the private's shoulders and kisses him 
on both cheeks. The long line of soldiers remains perfectly quiet. 
But in the eyes of many of them are tears. 

The programme is ended. Father Joffre gets into his low, gray 
automobile and disappears, in a swirl of mud, to some other part 
of the "zone of operations." 

The army now knows it has the real leader that it waited for 
so long. To the general public of France Joffre is still a mystery. 
But they are content with their mystery — they have faith in him. 
That is the spirit of the new France — a quiet faith and determina- 



20 WAR READINGS 

tion that certainly has deceived the rest of the world, especially 
Germany. It is the spirit of a nation that has found itself, and 
Joffre typifies it. 

A few books have appeared giving some information about 
the Commander-in-Chief. They deal chiefly with his march to 
Timbuctoo and his career in Indo-China. For the rest, Parisians 
know that before the war he lived quietly in a little villa in Auteuil, 
and that next to his love for his family, the things he regarded 
as best in all the world are peace and fishing. Recently it was 
learned that he commandeered a barge on one of the rivers near 
the battle-line — and there he sometimes sits and quietly fishes 
while thinking out new army plans. His only other recreation 
at the front is reading at night before going to bed from his fa- 
vorite authors, Balzac, Dumas, and Charles Dickens. Joffre 
understands English and reads it but will not speak it. "It is 
that he has an accent which he likes not," explained one of his 
officers. 

A Battle-Field 

I doubt whether until the war is over it will be possible ade- 
quately to describe the battle, or rather, the series of battles ex- 
tending along this particular front of about fifty miles. " Laby- 
rinth" certainly is the fittest word to call it. I always had a fairly 
accurate sense of direction; but, it was impossible for me, stand- 
ing in many places in this giant battle-field, to say where were the 
Germans and where the French, so confusing was the constant 
zigzag of the trenches. Sometimes when I was positive that a 
furious cannonade coming from a certain position was German, 
it turned out to be French. At other times, when I thought I 
was safely going in the direction of the French, I was hauled 
back by officers who told me I was heading directly into the Ger- 
man line of fire. I sometimes felt that the German lines were 
on three sides, and often I was quite correct. On the other hand, 
the French lines often almost completely surrounded the German 
positions. 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 21 

One could not tell from the nearness of the artillery-fire whether 
it was from friend or foe. Artillery makes three different noises: 
first, the sharp report followed by detonations like thunder, 
when the shell first leaves the gun; second, the rushing sound of 
the shell passing high overhead ; third, the shrill whistle, fol- 
lowed by the crash when it finally explodes. In the Labyrinth 
the detonations which usually indicated the French fire might 
be from the German batteries stationed close by but unable to 
get our range, and firing at a section of the French lines some 
miles away. I finally determined that when a battery fired fast 
it was French; for the German fire became more intermittent every 
day. 

I shall try to give some idea of what this fighting looks like. 
Late one afternoon, coming out of a trench into a green meadow, 
I suddenly found myself backed against a mud bank made of the 
dirt taken from the trenches. We were just at the crest of a hill. 
In khaki clothes I was of the same color as the mud bank; so an 
officer told me I was in a fairly safe position. 

Modern war becomes a somewhat flat affair after the first im- 
pressions have been dulled. 

We blotted ourselves against our mud bank, carefully adjusted 
our glasses, turned them toward the valley before us — whence 
came the sound of exploding shells — and watched a village dying 
in the sunset. It was only about a thousand yards away — I didn't 
even ask whether it was in French or German possession. A loud 
explosion, a roll of dense black smoke, penetrated at once by the 
long, horizontal rays of sun, revealing tumbling roofs and crum- 
bling walls. A few seconds' intermission; then another explo- 
sion; a public school in the main street sagged suddenly in the 
centre. With no pause came succession of explosions, and the 
building was prone upon the ground — a jagged pile of broken 
stones. 

We turned our glasses on the other end of the village. A 
column of black smoke was rising where the church had caught 
fire. We watched it awhile in silence. Ruins were getting 



22 WAR READINGS 

very common. I swept the glasses away from the hamlet alto- 
gether and pointed out over the distant fields to the left. 

"Where are the German trenches?" I asked the Major. 

"I'll show you — ^just a moment!" he answered, and at the 
same time signalling to a soldier squatting in the entrance to a 
trench near by, he ordered the man to convey a message to the 
telephone station, which connected with a "seventy-five" battery 
at our rear. I was on the point of telling the officer not to bother 
about it. The words were on my lips; then I thought: "Oh, 
never mind ! I might know where the trenches are, now that I 
have asked." 

The soldier disappeared. "Watch!" said the officer. We 
peered intently across the fields to the left. In less than a min- 
ute there were two sharp explosions behind us, two puffs of smoke 
out on the horizon before us, about a mile away. 

"That's where they are!" the officer said. "Both shells went 
right into them!" 

How Seventy-Five Held Twelve Thousand 

It was just dawn when I got off a train at Gerbeviller,^ the 
little "Martyr City" that hides its desolation as it hid its existence 
in the foot-hills of the Vosges. 

There was a dense fog. At 6 a. m. fog usually covers the valleys 
of the Meurthe and Moselle. 

I went down the main street from the station, the fog envelop- 
ing me. I had letters to the town officials, but it was too early 
in the morning to present them. I would first get my own im- 
pressions of the wreck and ruin. 

I wandered along to where the street turned sharply. There the 
ground pitched straight to the little river. Half of a house stood 
there, unscathed by fire; it was one of those unexplainable freaks 
that often occur in great catastrophes. Even the window-glass 
was intact. Smoke was coming from the chimney. I went to 

1 Pronounce ZhSr-ba-ve-ya. 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 23 

the opposite side and there stood an old woman looking out toward 
the river, brooding over the ruin stretching below her. 

"You are lucky," I said. "You still have your home." 

She turned a toothless countenance toward me and threw out 
her hands. I judged her to be well over seventy. It wasn't her 
home, she explained. Her home was "la-bas" — pointing vaguely 
in the distance. She had lived there fifty years — now it was 
burned. Her son's house, he had saved thirty years to be able 
to call it his own, was also gone; but then her son was dead, so 
what did it matter? . . . 

And why were the houses burned? No; it was not the result 
of bombardment. Gerbeviller was not bombarded until after 
the houses were burned. They were burned by the Germans 
systematically. They went from house to house with their torches 
and oil and pitch. They did not explain why they burned the 
houses, but it was because they were angry. 

The old woman paused a moment, and a faint flicker of a smile 
showed in the wrinkles about her eyes. I asked her to continue 
her story. 

"You said because they were angry," I prompted. The smile 
broadened. Oh, yes, they were angry, she explained. They 
did not even make the excuse that the villagers fired upon them. 
They were just angry through and through ! And it was all 
because of those seventy-five French chasseurs ^ who held the 
bridge. 

Some one called to her from the house. She hobbled to the 
door. "Any one can tell you about the seventy-five chasseurs," 
she said, disappearing within. 

I went on down the road and stood upon the bridge over the 
swift little river. It was a narrow, tiny bridge only wide enough 
for one wagon to pass. Two roads from the town converged there, 
the one over which I had passed and another which formed a letter 
"V" at the junction with the bridge. Across the river only one 
road led away from the bridge and it ran straight up a hill, when 
I Sha-stir'= light infantrymen. 



24 WAR READINGS 

it turned suddenly into the broad national highway to Luneville, 
about five miles away. 

One house remained standing at the end of the bridge, nearest 
the town. Its roof was gone, and its walls bore the marks of 
hundreds of bullets, but it was inhabited by a little old man of 
fifty, who came out to talk with me. He was the village carpenter. 
His house was burned, so he had taken refuge in the little house 
at the bridge. During the time the Germans were there he had 
been a prisoner, but they forgot him the morning the French 
army arrived. Everybody was in such a hurry, he explained. 

I asked him about the seventy-five chasseurs at the bridge. 

Ah, yes, we were then standing on the site of their barricade. 
He would tell me about it, for he had seen it all from his house 
half-way up the hill. 

The chasseurs were first posted across the river on the road 
to Luneville, and when the Germans approached, early in the 
morning, they fell back to the bridge, which they had barricaded 
the night before. It was the only way into Gerbeviller, so the 
chasseurs determined to fight. They had torn up the street and 
thrown great earthworks across one end of the bridge. Additional 
barricades were thrown up on the two converging streets, part 
way up the hill, behind which they had mitrailleuses ^ which could 
sweep the road at the other end of the bridge. 

About a half mile to the south a narrow foot-bridge crossed the 
river, only wide enough for one man. It was a little rustic affair 
that ran through the grounds of the Chateau de Gerbeviller, 
which faced the river only a few hundred yards below the main 
bridge. It was a very ancient chateau, built in the twelfth cen- 
tury and restored in the seventeenth century. It was a royal 
chateau of the Bourbons. In it once lived the great Francois de 
Montmorency, Due de Luxembourg and Marshal of France. Now 
it belonged to the Marquise de Lamberty, a cousin of the King of 
Spain. 

I interrupted, for I wanted to hear about the chasseurs. I 
' Me-tra-y(lz'=niachine-giuis. 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 25 

gave the little old man a cigarette. He seized it eagerly — so 
eagerly that I also handed him a cigar. He fondled that cigar for 
a moment and then placed it in an inside pocket. It was a very 
cheap and very bad French cigar, for I was in a part of the country 
that has never heard of Havanas, but to the little old man it was 
something precious. "I will keep it for Sunday," he said. 

I then got him back to the seventy-five chasseurs. It was just 
eight o'clock in the morning — a beautiful sunshiny morning — 
when the German column appeared around the bend in the road 
which we could see across the bridge, and which joined the high- 
way from Luneville. There were twelve thousand in that first 
column. One hundred and fifty thousand more came later. A 
band was playing "Deutschland iiber AUes," and the men were 
singing. The closely packed front ranks of infantry broke into 
the goose-step as they came in sight of the town. It was a wonder- 
ful sight; the sun glistened on their helmets; they marched as 
though on. parade right down almost to the opposite end of the 
bridge. 

Then came the command to halt. For a moment there was a 
complete silence. The Germans, only a couple of hundred yards 
from the barricade, seemed slowly to consider the situation. 
The Captain of the chasseurs, from a shelter behind the very little 
house that was still standing — and where his men up the two 
roads could see him — softly waved his hand. 

Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack! The bullets from the 
mitrailleuses whistled across the bridge into the front ranks of 
the "Deutschland uber AUes" singers, while the men behind the 
bridge barricade began a deadly rifle-fire. 

Have you ever heard a mitrailleuse ? It is just like a telegraph 
instrument, with its insistent clickety click-click-click, only it is 
a hundred times as loud. Indeed I have been told by French 
officers that it has sometimes been used as a telegraph instrument, 
so accurately can its operator reel out its hundred and sixty shots 
a minute. 

On that morning at the Gerbeviller barricade, however, it went 



26 WAR READINGS 

faster than the telegraph. These men on the converging roads 
just shifted their range shghtly and poured bullets into the next 
ranks of infantry and so on back along the line, until Germans were 
dropping by the dozen at the sides of the straight little road. 
Then the column broke ranks wildly and fled back into the shelter 
of the road from Luneville. 

A half-hour later a detachment of cavalry suddenly rounded 
the corner and charged straight for the barricade. The seventy- 
five were ready for them. Some of them got half-way across the 
bridge and then tumbled into the river. Not one got back around 
the corner of the road to Luneville. 

There was another half-hour of quiet, and then from the Lune- 
ville road a battery of artillery got into action. Their range was 
bad, so far as any achievement against the seventy-five was con- 
cerned, so they turned their attention to the chateau, which 
they could easily see from their position across the river. The 
first shell struck the majestic tower of the building and shattered 
it. The next smashed the roof, the third hit the chapel — and so 
continued the bombardment until flames broke out to complete 
the destruction. 

Of course the Germans could not know that the chateau was 
empty, that its owner was in Paris and both her sons fighting in 
the French army. But they had secured the military advantage 
of demolishing one of the finest country houses in France, with its 
priceless tapestries, ancient marbles, and heirlooms of the Bour- 
bons. A howl of German glee was heard by the seventy-five 
chasseurs crouching behind their barricades. So pleased were 
the invaders with their achievement that next they bravely swung 
out a battery into the road leading to the bridge, intending to 
shell the barricades. The Captain of the chasseurs again waved 
his hand. Every man of the battery was killed before the guns 
were in position. It took an entire company of infantry — half 
of them being killed in the action — to haul those guns back 
into the Luneville road, thus to clear the way for another ad- 
vance. 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 27 

From then on until one o'clock in the afternoon there were 
more infantry attacks, all failing as lamentably as the first. The 
seventy-five were holding off the twelve thousand. At the last 
attack they let the Germans advance to the entrance of the bridge. 
They invited them with taunts to advance. Then they poured 
in their deadly fire, and as the Germans broke and fled they per- 
mitted themselves a cheer. Up to this time not one chasseur was 
killed, only four were wounded. 

Shortly after one o'clock the German artillery wasted a few 
more shells on the ruined chateau and the chasseurs could see a 
detachment crawling along the river bank in the direction of the 
narrow foot-bridge that crossed through the chateau park a half- 
mile below. The Captain of the chasseurs sent one man with a 
mitrailleuse to hold the bridge. He posted himself in the shelter 
of a large tree at one end. In a few minutes about fifty Germans 
appeared. They advanced cautiously on the bridge. The chas- 
seur let them get half-way over before he raked them with his 
fire. The water below ran red with blood. 

The Germans retreated for help and made another attack an 
hour later with the same result. By four o'clock, when the lone 
chasseur's ammunition was exhausted, it is estimated that he 
had killed one hundred and seventy-five Germans, who made five 
desperate rushes to take the position, which would have enabled 
them to make a fiank attack on the seventy-four still holding the 
main bridge. When his ammunition was gone — which occurred 
at the same time as the ammunition at the main bridge was ex- 
hausted — this chasseur with the others succeeded in effecting a 
retreat to a main body of cavalry. If he still lives — this modern 
Horatius at the bridge — he remains an unnamed hero in the 
ranks of the French army, unhonored except in the hearts of those 
few of his countrymen who know. 

During the late hours of the afternoon aeroplanes flew over the 
chasseurs' position, thus discovering to the Germans how really 
weak were the defenses of the town, how few its defenders. Be- 
sides the ammunition was gone. But for eight hours — from eight 



28 WAR READINGS 

in the morning until four in the afternoon — the seventy-five had 
held the twelve thousand. 

Had that body of twelve thousand succeeded earlier the one 
hundred and fifty thousand Germans that advanced the next day 
might have been able to fall on the French right flank during a 
critical battle of the war. The total casualties of the chasseurs 
were three killed, three captured, and six wounded. 

Sister Julie, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor 

A little, round apple-dumpling sort of woman in nun's cos- 
tume was bobbing a curtsy to me from the doorway. In excited 
French she begged me to be seated. For I was "Monsieur 
I'Americain" who had come to visit Gerbeviller, the little com- 
munity nestling in the foot-hills of the Vosges, that has suffered 
quite as much from Germans as any city, even those in Belgium. 
It was her "grand pleasure" that I should come to visit her. 

I stared for a moment in amazement. I could scarcely realize 
that this plump, bobbing, little person was the famous Sister 
Julie. I had pulled every wire I could discover among my ac- 
quaintances at the Foreign Office and the Ministry of War to be 
granted the privilege of making the trip into that portion of the 
forbidden "zone of military activity" where Sister Julie had 
made her name immortal. I carried a letter from one of the 
great officials of the Quai d'Orsay, addressed to the little nun in 
terms of reverence that one might use toward his mother. He 
signed himself "Yours, with great affection," after craving that 
she would grant me audience. And there she was, with the letter 
still unopened in her hand, telling me how glad she was to see me. 

I confess I expected a different type of woman. I thought 
a different type necessary to handle the German invaders in the 
fashion Sister Julie handled them at Gerbeviller. I imagined a 
tall, commanding woman — like Madame Macherez, Mayor of 
Soissons — would enter the little sitting-room where I had been 
waiting that sunny morning. 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 29 

In that little sitting-room the very atmosphere of war is not 
permitted. There is too much close at hand, where nine-tenths 
of the city lies in ashes as a result of the German visit. So in that 
room there is nothing but comfort, peace, and good cheer. Potted 
geraniums fill the window-boxes, pretty chintz curtains cover 
the glass. Where bullets had torn furrows in the plaster and 
drilled holes in the woodwork the wounds were concealed as far 
as possible. It was hard to realize that the deep, rumbling roars 
that shook the house while we talked were caused by a Franco- 
German artillery duel only a few kilometres away. 

The little woman drew out chairs from the centre-table and 
we seated ourselves, she talking continuously of how glad she was 
that one from "that great America" should want to see her and 
know about her work. Ah ! her work, there was still so much 
to do! 

She got up and toddled to the window, drawing aside the chintz 
curtains. " Poor Gerbeviller ! " she sighed as we looked out over 
the desolate waste of burned houses. "My poor, poor Gerbe- 
viller!" 

Tears stood in her brown eyes and fell upon the wide white 
collar of the religious order that she wore. She brushed them 
aside quickly and turned to the table, again all smiles and dimples. 
Yes ! dimples, for although Sister Julie is small, she is undeniably 
plump. She has dimples in her cheeks and in her chin — chins, I 
might say. She even has dimples on the knuckles of her hands, 
after the fashion of babies. Her face is round and rosy. Her 
voice low and mellow. She looks only about forty of her sixty 
years — a woman who seems to have taken life as something that 
is always good. Evil and Germans seem never to have entered 
her door. 

Then I remembered what this woman had done; how all France 
is talking about her and is proud of her. How the President of 
the Republic went to the little, ruined city, accompanied by the 
Presidents of the Senate and the Chamber of Deputies, and a great 
military entourage, just to hang the jewelled Cross of the Legion 



30 WAR READINGS 

of Honor about her neck. I wondered what they thought when 
she bobbed her curtsy in the doorway. 

For it took a war to distinguish this little woman from the 
crowd. Outside her order she was unknown before the Germans 
came to France. But it did not matter to her. She just went 
placidly and smilingly on her way, "doing the Lord's work," as 
she told me. Then the day arrived when the Germans came, and 
this little, round apple-dumpling woman blew up. That is just 
the way it was. I could tell it from the way her brown eyes 
flashed when she told the tale to me. She was angry through and 
through just from the telling. She just exploded when the Ger- 
mans entered her front door. And then her name was written in- 
delibly on the scroll of fame as one of the great heroines of the war. 

The Germans wanted bread, did they? — such was the way the 
story began — well, what did they mean by coming to her for it? 
They burned the baker's shop, didn't they, on the way through 
the town ? Well, how did they expect her to furnish them bread ? 
Her bread was for her people. Yes, she had a good supply of it. 
But the Germans could find their own bread. 

The German officer pointed a revolver at her head. She reached 
out her hand and struck it from his grasp. Then she waved a 
plump finger under his nose. Her voice was no longer low and 
mellow. It was commanding and austere. How dared he point 
a revolver at her — a " Religieuse," a nun? He could get right 
out of her house, too — and get out quick. 

The officer's heavy jaw dropped in astonishment. He backed 
his way along the narrow hall, not stopping to pick up his weapon, 
and kicked backward the file of soldiers that crowded behind him. 
At the door Sister Julie put a detaining hand on his shoulder. 

"You are an officer," she said — the man understood French 
perfectly. " Well, while your soldiers are setting fire to the town, 
you just tell them to keep out of this end of the street. This is 
my house; it is for me and the five Sisters with me. Now we 
have made it a hospital. You barbarians just keep out of here 
with your burning." 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 31 

Barbarians ! The officer raised his fist to strike. Something 
that was not of heaven made Sister JuHe's eyes deadly black. 
The man lowered his fist, quailing. " The devil ! " he said. Yes, 
barbarians ! She almost shouted the word at him — and it was 
quite understood that his men were not to burn the hospital or 
the houses adjoining. 

The crowd cleared out of the house rapidly and the breadth of 
Sister Julie's form filled the doorway. It was night and the 
burning was progressing rapidly, the Germans methodically firing 
every house. Some soldiers came to the house next to the hos- 
pital, and broke open the door. Sister Julie left her position in 
the hospital doorway and advanced upon them. 

"Go away from here," she ordered. "Don't you dare set that 
house afire. It is next to the hospital. If it burns the hospital 
will burn, too. So go away — your officers have said that you are 
not to burn this end of the street." 

The soldiers gazed at her stupidly. She advanced upon them, 
waving her arms. Several, after staring a moment, suddenly 
made the sign of the cross, and the entire party disappeared down 
the street to continue their destruction elsewhere. 

The little nun then left her post at the door. She went to 
see that her food supplies were safe. She had a conference with 
the other Sisters, and visited the beds of the thirteen wounded 
that the house already contained. Six of the wounded were of the 
band of seventy-five chasseurs who had held the Gerbeviller 
bridge against the Germans — twelve thousand Germans for eight 
hours — until their ammunition gave out. The others were 
civilians who were shot when the Germans finally entered the 
town. 

After visiting her wounded. Sister Julie went out the back 
door of the house accompanied by two of the Sisters. The three 
carried large clothes-baskets, kitchen-knives, and a hatchet. 
Through the gardens and behind the burning houses they passed 
down the hill to the part of the city near the river, which was 
already smouldering in ashes. They went into the ruined barns. 



32 WAR READINGS 

where the cows and horses were all burned alive. I was shown 
a bleached white bone, a souvenir of one of the cows. 

With the hatchet and knives they secured enough bones and 
flesh from the dead animals to fill the two great baskets. Then 
they climbed painfully up the hill, behind the burning build- 
ings, to the back door of their home. Water was drawn from 
their well, and a great fire built in the old-fashioned chimney 
in the kitchen. The enormous kettle was filled with the water, 
the meat and the bones, and soon the odor from gallons of soup 
penetrated the outer door to the street. Again a German officer 
headed a delegation into the hall. 

"You have food here," he announced to Sister Julie. 

"We have," she snapped back. She was very busy. She 
waved the butcher-knife under his nose. She then told him 
that the soup was for the people of Gerbeviller and for her 
wounded. She expressed no regret that there would be none 
left for Germans. 

The officer said that the twelve thousand who entered Gerbe- 
viller that afternoon was the advance column. The main body, 
with the commissariat, was coming shortly. Meanwhile, they 
were hungry. They would take Sister Julie's supply. They 
would take it — eh? Take it? They would only do that over 
her dead body. Meanwhile, they would leave her kitchen in- 
stantly. They did — the butcher-knife making ferocious passes 
behind them on their way to the door. Sister Julie was still doing 
her "work for the Lord." 

She then ordered all the wash-tubs filled with water and brought 
inside the hall. The fire was coming into the street. Dense smoke 
was everywhere. Even the Germans now seemed willing to save 
that particular part of Gerbeviller. It was the portion near the 
railway-station and the telegraph. A substantial building near 
the gare^ would make an excellent headquarters for their General, 
who was due to arrive shortly. The civilians (only a few of the 
2,000 inhabitants remained) were all herded into a field just on 

1 Railway-station. 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 33 

the outskirts of the town. Sister Julie, with Sister Hildegarde, 
sallied forth with their soup, and fed them. The next day she 
would see that the Germans allowed them to come to the hos- 
pital for more. 

When she returned, a number of soldiers who had discovered a 
wine-cellar were reeling up the street. They stopped in front 
of the hospital, but turned their attention to the house opposite. 
They would burn it. It had evidently been forgotten. They 
broke into the place, and in a moment flames could be seen through 
the lower windows. 

Sister Julie called to the soldiers. They stared at her from the 
middle of the road. She motioned for them to come to her. 
They came. She told them to follow her into the hall. There 
she showed them the wash-tubs full of water. They were to 
carry those tubs across the street and put out the fire they had 
started, and which would endanger the hospital. This was ac- 
cording to orders given by the officers. After putting out the 
fire they were to bring the tubs back and refill them from the 
well in the back yard. The work was too heavy for the Sisters. 

When these orders were obeyed. Sister Julie carried a little camp- 
chair to the front steps and began a vigil that lasted all night 
long and half the next day. She saw the great German army of 
a hundred and fifty thousand march by, the band playing 
"Deutschland iiber AUes," the infantry doing the goose-step as 
they passed the burning houses. Four times during the night 
the tubs of water in the hall were emptied and refilled when the 
flames crept close to her house. 

At dawn next morning four oflScers approached her where she 
sat upon the door-step. One of them informed her that, inas- 
much as she was concealing French soldiers with arms inside 
the house, they intended to make a search. 

"You are telling a lie," she informed them calmly, and did 
not budge. Two of the officers drew revolvers. Sister Julie sniffed 
contemptuously. The first officer again spoke. But his tone 
altered. It was less bumptious. He said that, inasmuch as the 



34 WAR READINGS 

house had been spared the flames, at least an investigation was 
necessary. 

Sister JuHe arose and started inside. The officers stopped her. 
Two of them would lead the way. The other two would follow. 
The pair with drawn revolvers entered first and tiptoed cautiously 
down the hall. Then came the little nun. The second pair drew 
poniards and brought up the rear. She directed them to the 
rooms on the first floor, the sitting-room, dining-room, and the 
kitchen, where Sister Hildegarde was busy over the fire. Then 
they went up-stairs to the beds of the wounded. The first officer 
insisted that the covers be drawn back from each bed to make sure 
that the occupants were really wounded. Sister Julie remained 
silent at the door. As they turned to leave, she said with sar- 
casm, but with dignity: "You have seen. You know that I have 
spoken the truth. We are six Sisters of Mercy. Our work is 
to care for the sick. We will care for your German wounded, as 
well as our French. You may bring them here." 

That morning the invaders began battle with the French, who 
had finished their intrenchments some kilometres on the other 
side of the town. At night the Germans accepted Sister Julie's 
invitation, and brought two hundred and fifty-eight wounded to 
her house. They completely filled the place. They were placed 
in rows in the sitting-room, the dining-room, and the hall. They 
were even in the kitchen and in the attic. The weather was fine 
and they were stretched in rows in the garden. The few other 
houses undestroyed by fire were also turned into hospitals, and for 
fourteen days Sister Julie and her five assistants scarcely slept. 
They just passed the time giving medicine and food and nursing 
wounds. By the fourteenth day, the French had made a con- 
siderable advance and were dropping shells into the town, so the 
Germans decided to take away their own wounded. 

During all this time daily rations were served to the civilian 
survivors, on orders secured by Sister Julie at the German head- 
quarters. The civilians were ill-treated, but they were fed. 
Sister Julie gave me concrete instances of outrage. Many were 
killed for no reason whatever; some were sent as hostages to 



STORIES OF FRANCE AT WAR 35 

Germany. During fourteen days they were herded in the field. 
Afterward ten were found dead, with their hands manacled. 
Sister JuHe told me one instance of an old woman, a paralytic, 
seventy-eight years old, who was taken out in an automobile to 
show the various wine-cellars among the neighboring farms. The 
old woman had not been out of her house for years and did not 
know the wine-cellars. So the Germans killed her. Sister Julie 
went out at night and found her body. She and Sister Hildegarde 
buried it. 

On the morning of the fifteenth day, the battle was fiercer than 
ever. The French had taken a hill near the outskirts, and mitrail- 
leuse bullets frequently whistled through the streets. Several 
times they entered the windows of Sister Julie's house and buried 
themselves in the walls. But none of the Sisters was hurt. 

There was a lull in the fighting for the next few days. The 
French were very busy at something — the Germans knew not 
what. They became more insolent than ever, and drank of the 
wine they had stored at the gave. In the ruins of the church they 
found the grilled-iron strong box, where the priest, who had been 
sent to Germany as a hostage, had locked up the golden com- 
munion vessels, afterward giving the key to Sister Julie. The 
lock was of steel, and very old and strong. They tried to break 
it, but failed. They came to Sister Julie for the key, and she 
sent them packing. "I lied to them," she said softly. "I told 
them I didn't have the key." 

Through the grilled-iron of the box the soldiers could see the 
vessels. They were of fine gold, and very ancient. They were 
given to the church in the fifteenth century by Rene, Due de 
Lorraine and King of Jerusalem. The strong box was riveted 
to the foundations of the church with bands of steel and could 
not be carried away. They shot at the lock, to break it. But it 
did not break. Instead the bullets penetrated the box, a half- 
dozen tearing ragged holes in the vessels. The wine finally be- 
came of greater interest than the gold, and the soldiers went 
away. That night Sister Julie went alone into the ruins of the 
church, opened the box, and took the vessels out. 



36 WAR READINGS 

She paused in her story, got up from her chair, and unlocked a 
cabinet in the wall. From it she brought the vessels wrapped 
in a white cloth. I took the great golden goblet in my hands 
and saw the holes of the German bullets. Sister Julie sat silent, 
looking out through the chintz curtains into the street. Then 
she smiled. 

She was thinking of the eighth morning after the wounded 
had been taken away. That was the happiest morning of her 
life, she told me. At five o'clock that morning, just after day- 
break. Sister Hildegarde had come to her bed to tell her that 
the Germans stationed near the gare in that part of the town all 
seemed to be going to the ruined part, near the river, in the oppo- 
site direction from the French. A few minutes later Sister Julie 
got up and looked from the window. Then she almost fell down 
the stairs in her rush to get out-of-doors. About fifty yards up 
the street was a watering-trough. Seated on horseback before 
that trough, watering their animals, laughing and smoking ciga- 
rettes, were six French dragoons. 

"I cried at the blessed sight of them," she said. "They sat 
there, so gay, so debonair, as only Frenchmen know how to sit on 
horses." Sister Julie hurried to them. They smiled at her and 
saluted as she approached. 

"But do you know the Germans are here?" she anxiously in- 
quired. "You may be taken prisoners." 

"Oh, no, we won't," they answered in chorus. "There are 
thirty thousand more of us just behind — due here in about two 
minutes. The whole French army is on the advance." 

Then came thirty thousand. After the thirty thousand came 
more thousands. All that day the street echoed to the feet of 
marching Frenchmen. Their faces were dark and terrible when 
they saw what the Germans had done. Most of the day Sister 
Julie sat on her door-step and wept for joy. Since that morning 
not a German has been seen in Gerbeviller. 

Sister Julie ceased her story and wiped the tears that had been 
running in streams down her cheeks. We heard the rattle of a 



TO FRANCE . 37 

drum outside the window. It was the signal of the town-crier 
with news for the population. Sister Julie opened the window 
and looked out. It was the announcement of the meeting to be 
held that afternoon, a meeting that she had arranged for discus- 
sion of plans for rebuilding the town. Five hundred of the popu- 
lation had returned. There was so much work to do. The 
streets must be cleared of the debris. The sagging walls must be 
torn down and new buildings erected. It would be done quickly, 
immediately almost; aid was forthcoming from many quarters. 
The new houses would be better than the old. The streets were 
to be wide and straight, not narrow and crooked. Gerbeviller 
was to arise from her ashes modern and improved. And only a 
few miles away the cannon still roared and thundered. 

I asked her about the Cross of the Legion of Honor, given her 
by President Poincare, I asked why she did not wear it. A 
pleased flush deepened the color in her rosy cheeks. I shall always 
remember the grace and dignity of her answer. 

"I do not wear it because it was not meant for me alone," she 
said. "It was given to the women of France who have done 
their duty." 

"Not the little red ribbon of the order," I persisted. "You 
should pin that on your dress." 

But Sister Julie shook her head. She is a " Religieuse," she 
explained. Nuns do not wear decorations. They are doing the 
work of the Lord. 



TO FRANCE! 

HERBERT JONES 



Those who have stood for thy cause when the dark was around 

thee. 
Those who have pierced through the shadows and shining have 

found thee, 

1 From a "Book of Princeton Verse," copyright, 1916, by Princeton University 
Press. Used by permission. 



38 W.AJl READINGS 

Those who have held to their faith in thy courage and power, 
Thy spirit, thy honor, thy strength for a terrible hour. 
Now can rejoice that they see thee in light and in glory. 
Facing whatever may come as an end to the story 
In calm imdespairing, with steady eyes fixed on the morrow — 
The morn that is pregnant with blood and with death and with 
sorrow. 

And whether the ^-icto^y crowns thee, O France the eternal, 
Or whether the smoke and the dusk of a nightfall infernal 
Gather about thee, and us, and the foe; and all treasures 
Run with the flooding of war into bottomless measures — 
Fall what befalls: in this hour all those who are near thee 
And all who have loved thee, they rise and salute and revere Thee ! 



IN FLIGHT BEFORE THE GERMANS ^ 

FRANCES WILSOX HUARD 

The book from which these selections are made tells of the share of an 
American woman in the events of the opening weeks of war. The home 
of Madame Huard, the Chateau de ViUiers, is near the river Mame on 
the direct road from Metz to Paris. Forced to flee at the approach of 
the Germans in August, 1914, her chateau was occupied by the German 
general, von Kluck, and his staff. When the Germans retired after their 
defeat at the battle of the Mame, Madame Huard returned and con- 
rerted her home into a hospital for wounded French soldiers. Later she 
travelled through the United States gathering funds for her work. She 
describes her hospital work in another book, "ISIy Home in the Field of 
Mercy." 

The Coming of Refugees 

That night I was awakened by the low rumbling of heavy 
carts on the road in front of the chateau. Fancying that per- 
haps it was artillery on its way to the front, I put on my dress- 

1 From "My Home In the Field of Honor," copj-right, 1916, by Geo. H. Doran 
& Co. Used by permission. 



IN FLIGHT BEFORE THE GERMANS 39 

ing-gown and went as far as the gate. There in the pale moon- 
light I beheld a long stream of carriages and wagons of every 
description piled high with household goods, and filled with women 
and children. The men walked beside the horses to prevent 
collision, for as far as eye could see, the lamentable cortege ex- 
tended down the hill. 

WTiat did this mean? 

"Who are you?" I called to one of the men as they passed. 

" Belgians — refugees." 

Refugees. My mind flew back to descriptions of the French 
Revolution and the Reign of Terror, when so many people fled 
for their lives. WTiat nonsense ! Were w^e not in the twentieth 
century? Wasn't there a Peace Palace at The Hague? My 
thoughts became muddled. 

Opening the gate, I went out and accosted another man. 

"Won't you come in and rest?" 

"No, we can't. We must make our twenty miles by dawn — 
and rest during the heat of the day." 

"But why do you leave home?" 

"Because the savages burned us out!" 

Bah, the man must be dreaming! 

I turned back and addressed myself to another: 

"WTiat's your hurry?" I queried. 

" They're on our heels ! " came the reply. 

Surely this one was madder than the other. 

A third did not deign to reply, sturdily marching ahead, his 
eyes fixed on the road in front of him. 

On top of a farm cart half filled with hay I saw the prostrate 
form of a woman with two others kneeling beside her, ministering 
to her wants. In the trap that followed was the most sorrowful 
group of old men and middle-aged women I ever hope to see. 
All were sobbing. Beside them rode tft-o big boys on bicycles. 
I stopped one of them. 

"^Vhat's the matter with her?" I questioned, pointing to the 
woman on the cart. 



40 WAR READINGS 

"She's crazy." 

"Yes, lost her mind." 

"How, when, where?" 

"Two days ago, when we left X." (Try as I may, I cannot 
recall the name of the little Belgian town he mentioned.) "She 
was ill in bed with a fever when the Germans set fire to the place — 
hardly giving us time to hoist her on the cart. Her husband lin- 
gered behind to scrape a few belongings together. In spite of our 
efforts, she would stand up on the cart, and suddenly we heard 
an explosion and she saw her house burst into flames. She fainted. 
Outside in the woods we waited an hour, but her husband never 
came. Perhaps it's just as well, for when she woke up her mind 
was a blank "... 

. . . Dawn, Monday, August 31st, found us still at our posts. 
I rang the farm bell, assembled my servants, and told them we 
would abandon all but the most necessary farm work and minister 
to the wants of the refugees. By eight o'clock they had peeled 
and prepared vegetables enough to fill two huge copper pots, and 
the soup was set to boil. And still the long line of heavy vehicles 
followed one another down the road: moving-vans, delivery- 
wagons, huge drays, and even little three-wheeled carts drawn by 
dogs, rolled on toward the south. 

When asked where they were going, most of the people re- 
plied: "Straight ahead of us, a la grace de Dieu." ^ 

As I turned away, a sturdy youth tapped me gently on the 
arm, begging shelter for his great-grandmother, a woman ninety- 
three years old, whom he had carried on his back all the way from 
St. Quentin. A cot in the entrance-hall was all prudence per- 
mitted me to offer, and it was charming to see how tenderly the 
young fellow bore the poor little withered woman to her resting- 
place. She was so dazed that I fear she hardly realized what was 
happening, but tears of gratitude streamed down her cheeks 
when her boy appeared with a bowl of hot soup, coaxing her to 

1 By the grace of God. 



IN FLIGHT BEFORE THE GERMANS 41 

drink, like a child, and finally curling up on the rug beside her 
bed. ... 

At six-thirty the public distribution of soup recommenced. 
Who my guests were I have no idea. There were more than a 
hundred of them. That was clear enough from the dishes that 
were left. Just as the last round had been served, George came 
in to say that the village was beginning to get uneasy — people 
from Neuilly St. Front and Lucy-le-Bocage and Essonnes had 
already passed down the road — and the peasants looked to the 
chateau for a decision ! 

I went out to the gate. Yes, true enough, our neighbors from 
Lucy (five miles distant) had joined the procession. Then there 
was a break, and a lull, such as had not occurred for two days, 
and in the silence I again recognized the same clattering sound 
that had caught my ear on the hill-top the afternoon before. This 
time it was much more distinct, but was soon drowned out by the 
rumbling of heavy wheels on the road. 

Surely this time it was artillery I 

I wrapped my shawl closer about me and sat down on the low 
stone wall that borders the moat, while little groups of peasants, 
unable to sleep, clustered together on the roadside. 

Nearer and nearer drew the clanking noise and presently a 
whole regiment of perambulators, four abreast, swung around the 
corner into the moonlight. 

Domptin ! 

Domptin, our neighboring village, one mile up the road, had 
caught the fever and was moving out wholesale, transporting its 
ill and decrepit, its children and chattels, in heaven knows how 
many baby-carriages ! 

I had never seen so many in all my life. The effect was alto- 
gether comic, and Madame Guix and I could not resist laughing — 
much to the dismay of these poor souls who saw little amusement 
at being obliged to leave home scantily clad in night clothes. 



42 WAR READINGS 

The Flight 

In front of me I could hear the wheels of our heavy-laden hay 
cart creaking as the big farm horse plodded on. Its occupants 
were silent, and thanks to the moon and the lantern which hung 
up high behind, I could see Julie and Madame Guix nodding with 
sleep. 

We crossed our little market town of Charly amid dead silence. 
Not a light in a single window, not a soimd anywhere. We seemed 
to be the only souls astir, and the foolhardiness of this midnight 
departure when every one else was tucked up snug in his bed, 
angered me. I was seized with a mad desire to turn about and 
go home. 

Just then George asked me which direction I intended taking, 
and, remembering H's imperative, "Go south," we turned sharp 
and headed for the first bridge across the Marne. 

The Marne crossed, a weight was lifted from my shoulders, 
and, settling back against the pile of blankets in my rig, I let the 
horse follow his own sweet will and we started to zigzag up a 
steep incline. At the end of five minutes' time I was so benumbed 
by the cold that sleep was impossible, so I left my seat and joined 
the others who, all save Yvonne, had been obliged to descend to 
relieve their horses. What a climb that was — seven long kilome- 
tres from right to left — winding around that hill, as about a 
mountain, ever and again finding ourselves on a narrow ledge 
overlooking the valley. The fog had spread until literally choked 
up between the hills and I could hardly persuade myself that it 
was not the sea that rolled below me. 

Dawn was breaking as we reached the summit and, pausing for 
a moment's breath, we could see people with bundles hurrying from 
cottages and farmyards, while the fields seemed dotted with horses 
and carts that sprang out of the semidarkness like spectres, fol- 
lowing one another to the highway. In less than no time the 
long caravan had reformed and was again under way. 

We brought up the rear, preceded by five hundred snow-white 



IN FLIGHT BEFORE THE GERMANS 43 

oxen. There was no way of advancing faster than the cortege. 
It was stay in line or lose your place, and as the sun rose over 
the plains, I was so impressed by the magnificence of our proces- 
sion that I forgot the real cause of our flight and never for an in- 
stant realized that I now formed an intimate part of that column 
which but a few hours since inspired me with such genuine pity. 

As we padded through a small agglomeration of houses that one 
might hardly call a village, I recognized several familiar faces on 
the door-steps, and presently comprehended why Charly was so 
dark and silent the night before. It was empty — evacuated — 
and the greater part of its inhabitants were here on the roadside, 
preparing to continue their route. 

Where were we going? I think none of us had a very definite 
idea. We were following in line ori the only road that crossed 
this wonderfully fertile country. The monotony of the landscape, 
the warmth of the sun, added to the gentle swing of my cart 
calmed my nerves and I fell back into a heavy sleep. 

When I opened my eyes I could hear water running over a dam, 
and see below me, and but a very short distance away, a river 
flowing through a valley. Some one said it was the Petit Morin; 
another announced that we had come seventeen kilometres ; and a 
third proffered that it was 6.30 a. m. — time for breakfast. We 
ought not to attack the opposite hill on empty stomachs. 

The boys took all the horses down to the river and carefully 
bathed their knees and legs. In the meantime, coffee had been 
found and ground, some one had scurried about and found a 
house where milk could be had, and on an iron tripod that I had 
sense enough to bring along, water was set to boiling. 

It was very amusing that first picnic breakfast, and my ! what 
appetites we had. The summer lodgers in one of the cottages 
gazed upon us in amazement — all save one little girl who, so it 
seems, had had a presentiment that some ill would befall her 
and for two days had not ceased weeping. 

The meal over, each one went to my cart and, taking posses- 
sion of a blanket and pillow, rolled up in it and went fast asleep 



44 WAR READINGS 

in the brilliant sunshine. How we blessed those warm, pene- 
trating rays, for we had suffered much from the damp cold all 
night. 

My road-map showed us to be at La Tretoire/ midway be- 
tween Charly and Rebais, but as there were no provisions to be 
had in so small a place, I decided to push on to the township where 
we might be able to get lodgings. This, however, must be done 
before noon, or we would be obliged to sleep out-of-doors again, 
for it would be impossible to travel through the heat of the day. 
Accordingly, at half past eight, I roused the boys and we started 
up the hill, bag and baggage. 

. . . When I finally made my entrance into Rebais, I found 
that thousands of other persons had probably had the same idea 
as I and it took but little tim*e to discover that all rooms, whether 
private or public, were occupied. The place was overflowing with 
refugees. The line outside the baker's shop warned me that I 
had a dozen hungry mouths dependent upon me and yesterday's 
supply of bread was well nigh exhausted, let alone being stale. 
I took my place among the others and stood for a good hour, 
waiting for the second ovenful to finish baking. 

Certainly no greasy pig at a county fair was ever more diffi- 
cult to manage than that long nine-pound loaf of red-hot bread. 
There was no way of handling it — it burned everything it touched. 
No sooner did I put it under one arm than I was obliged to change 
it to the other post-haste. Add to this the fact that I had not 
ridden a bicycle since a child, and realize that whether walking 
or riding the bread was equally hot and equally cumbersome. It 
was too long to fit into the handle-bars ; besides, how could I hold it 
there ? Too soft to be tied with string that I might buy. At one 
moment I thought seriously of picking up my skirt and carrying 
the bread as peasant women do grass and fodder, but alas, a 1914 
skirt was too narrow to permit this. At length, when almost 
disheartened and I had stood my loaf against the side of a house 
to cool, I recognized a familiar voice back of me, and George ap- 

1 Tra twa. 



IN FLIGHT BEFORE THE GERMANS 45 

peared on his wheel to announce that my party had camped in 
a young orchard two miles outside of Rebais, neither man nor 
beast being capable of going any farther. We clapped our loaf 
into an overcoat that was strapped to the back of his machine 
and, swinging it between us, soon joined the others. 

The Return Home 

From various sources, though none of them official, I learned 
that the road as far as Coulommiers was clear. That was all 
we wanted to know, so after seeing the boys off for Orleans, a 
very much diminished caravan started on its homeward journey. 
The horses, after two days' rest, were quite giddy, and the carts 
being light, they carried us on the new road north as far as Pe- 
zarches with but few halts. The country we passed through, 
though abandoned by its inhabitants, showed no traces of inva- 
sion. The Germans had not been able to push so far west. I 
counted on making Coulommiers to sleep, but night closed in 
early and with it came a chilly drizzle, which sent us in search 
of lodgings. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere, and as all the 
houses were shut, I deemed it unwise to force a door. So we 
pushed ahead into the border of the forest, hoping that the rain 
would soon cease. 

Presently some one discovered an abandoned hermitage, through 
whose low doorway we crept, and, spreading out our blankets on 
the floor, prepared to make a night of it — glad of shelter from 
the dampness. 

"Hark!" hissed George, just as we were dropping off to sleep. 

We all sat up. 

"There! That's the third bullet that's landed on this roof!" 

Ra-ta-pan ! Ratapan ! There was no mistaking the sound — 
even through the wind and rain that raged outside. 

George crawled on his knees toward the opening, and a second 
later jumped back, clapping his hand to his head with a low 
shriek. 



46 WAR READINGS 

"He's shot!" cried Julie. 

I leaped forward, grabbed the lantern, and, holding it to the 
spot, opened the boy's clinched fingers. As they parted a heavy 
horse-chestnut burr fell to the floor with a loud thump ! 

We were too nervous to appreciate the humor of the situation, 
and had some little difficulty composing ourselves to rest. 

As we approached Coulommiers the next morning the horrors 
of war became more and more evident. On both sides of the 
roadway the fields were strewn with hay and straw. Every ten 
paces the earth was burned or charred, and in some places the 
smoke still rose from dying camp-fires. Bones, bottles, and tin 
preserve cans in extraordinary quantities were strewn in every 
direction, and a half-mile before we reached the town itself a 
dead horse lay abandoned in a ditch. . . . 

Twilight was deepening when I entered Bezu-le-Guery ^ (our 
nearest home town), which seemed to show apparently but few 
signs of pillaging. I did not even dismount to make inquiries, 
but pedalled on till I reached the summit on that long, long hill 
that leads straight down to my home. Excitement lent a new 
impulse to my energy, and my heart thumped as I recognized 
familiar cottages still standing. This raised my hopes and sent 
me rocket-like down that steep incline. 

Still not a soul in sight — no noise save that of the guns roaring 
in the distance. 

But what was that in the semidarkness ahead of me ? A dog ? 
could it be true? I back-pedalled and whistled — a long, low, 
familiar howl greeted my ears and brought the tears to my 
eyes. 

And then my poor old beagle hound came trotting up the road 
to welcome me — his tail wagging joyously and a long frayed cord 
dangling from his collar. 

This was a relief and somewhat steadied and prepared me 
for what was to come. 

Through a gap in the trees I caught a glimpse of the roofs 

1 Ba zoo le-ga re. 



SOUVENEZ-VOUS! 




Drawn by E. Lemielle. 



RHEIMS CATHEDRAL— 1914 47 

below. And so I rounded the corner and started on my last 
hundred yards. 

The broken and tangled grill of our stately gateway told of 
the invaders' visit. A few paces farther and the chateau came 
into full view. 

Yes, it was standing, but only the shell of that lovely home I 
had fled from but fourteen days before. 

Dropping my machine, I rushed toward the entrance-hall, cast 
one glance through the broken panes into the vestibule, and 
turned away in despair. 

All the wilful damage that human beings could do had been 
wrought on the contents of my home. 

The spell was broken. My nerves relaxed and, heedless of the 
filth, I dropped onto the steps and wept. 



RHEIMS CATHEDRAL— 19141 

GRACE HAZARD CONKLING 

A winged death has smitten dumb thy bells, 

And poured them molten from thy tragic towers: 
Now are the windows dust that were thy flowers 

Patterned like frost, petalled like asphodels. 

Gone are the angels and the archangels. 
The saints, the little lamb above thy door. 
The shepherd Christ ! They are not, any more. 

Save in the soul where exiled beauty dwells. 

But who has heard within thy vaulted gloom 
That old divine insistence of the sea. 

When music flows along the sculptured stone 

In tides of prayer, for him thy windows bloom 
Like faithful sunset, warm immortally ! 

Thy bells live on, and Heaven is in their tone ! 

I From "Afternoons of April," copyright, 1915, by The Houghton Miflflin Co. 
By special arrangement with the publishers. 



SANIEZi 

GILBERT N0BBS2 

Reserve Lazarette' 5, Hanover, boasted of no hospital nurses. 
There was no tender touch of a feminine hand to administer to 
the comfort and alleviate the distress of the wounded. There 
was no delicate and nourishing diet to strengthen the weak; 
neither did we expect it. We were prisoners of war, and though 
our sufferings were great, we were still soldiers. 

But those who have passed through Ward 43 will always look 
back with gratitude and admiration on one whose unselfish de- 
votion, tender care, and magnificent spirit was an example and 
inspiration to all of us. 

His name was Saniez, the orderly in charge of the ward; a 
Florence Nightingale, whose unceasing attention day and night, 
whose tender watchfulness and devoted care and kindness made 
him loved and worshipped by the maimed and helpless prisoners 
who were placed under his charge. 

Saniez was no ordinary man. No reward was his, except the 
heartfelt gratitude of those whom he tended. The wounded who 
passed through the ward left behind a debt of gratitude which 
could never be paid, and with a spirit of fortitude and courage 
created by his noble example. 

There are compensations for all suffering; and no greater com- 
pensation could any wish for than the devotion of Saniez. 

Saniez had suffered too, but would never speak of it. He had 
his moments of anguish and despair. He had a home, too; but 
his dreams he kept to himself, and his care he gave to others. 

Saniez was a Frenchman, a big, burly artilleryman with eyes 
bright, laughing, and sympathetic. 

He had been captured nearly two years before; and suffered 

» Pronounce sSn-e-a. From "On the Right of the British Line," copyright, 
1017, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 

« See -'Rations," p. 261. ' A prison-hospital. 



48 



SANIEZ 49 

severely from the effects of frozen feet. Yet, painful as it must 
have been to get about, he seldom sat down. 

All through those long days and nights weak voices would call 
him: it was always, "Saniez, Saniez!" and slop, slop, slop, we 
would hear him in his slippered feet, moving down the ward, 
attending to one and then another. 

Saniez would be quiet and sympathetic, with a voice soft and 
soothing; and the next moment, cheerful and boisterous. Cap- 
tivity could not subdue Saniez, or make him anything else than a 
loyal French soldier. 

He would guard his patients against the clumsy touch of a 
German orderly like a tiger guarding its young. He would bribe 
or steal to obtain a little delicacy for his patients. 

He seemed to know but a single German word, which he used 
on every possible occasion to express his disgust of the Germans. 
It was a slang word, but when Saniez used it, its single utterance 
was a volume of expression. It was nix, and when Saniez said 
nix, I knew he was shaking his woolly head in disgust. 

Saniez had a marvellous voice, and when he sang he held 
us spellbound, and he knew it. I do not speak French, and 
could not understand his words, but his expression was won- 
derful; and he would fling his arms about in frantic gesticula- 
tion. 

When Saniez sang he seemed to lift himself into a different 
atmosphere; he was back again in France; his songs all seemed 
about his country and his home. He seemed to rouse himself 
into a sudden spirit of defiance, and then his voice would grow soft 
and pathetic; and then slop, slop, slop, in his slippered feet, he 
would hurry off to a bedside to fix a bandage or administer a drink 
of water. 

Every morning German soldiers could be heard marching past 
our windows, singing their national songs. We listened; Saniez 
would stop his work. What we wanted to say we would leave to 
Saniez, as, broom in hand and eyes of fire, he would wait until their 
voices died away in the distance, and then, with a fierce shake of 



50 WAR READINGS 

his head, he would shout: " Boche ! ^ Nix ! " and, flinging his arms 
about his head, would sing the "Marseillaise." 

One evening, and I remember it well, though no pen of mine 
can adequately describe the soul-stirring picture — we had a con- 
cert in Ward 43. Four British and four French officers — a symbol 
of the Entente Cordiale — lay side by side in their cots, while con- 
valescent prisoners from other wards sat in front to cheer them 
with song and music. 

The Allies seemed well represented: an English Tommy with 
a guitar sang a comic song; a Russian soldier with a three-cornered 
string instrument sang a folk-song of his native land; a Belgian 
soldier played the violin; and Saniez sang for France. 

The applause that greeted the finish of each song was of mixed 
kind; for those whose arms were maimed would shout, and those 
who could not shout would bang a chair or clap their hands. It 
was a patriotic and inspiring scene, and even the German orderly, 
coming in to see what was going on, was tempted to stop and listen. 

We felt we were no longer prisoners ; the spirit of the Allies was 
unconquerable. 

Enthusiasm reached its highest pitch when Saniez brought it 
to a dramatic conclusion. Saniez had just finished a soul-inspiring 
song of his homeland. His audience could not withhold their 
applause until he finished, and Saniez could not restrain his spirit 
until the end of the applause. He suddenly threw up his arms, 
and at the top of his voice burst forth into the "Marseillaise," 
and the German orderly bolted out of the door. 

Then the concert party ran to their dormitories; the lights were 
turned out, and we sought safety in sleep. 

We used to ask Saniez about his home; and he seemed to grow 
quiet and confident. His home, he said, was about three miles 
behind the German line. 

Some one suggested that it was in a dangerous place, as the 
British were advancing, and no house near the line could escape 
untouched; but Saniez was confident. 

1 B6sh. 



THE NAME OF FRANCE 51 

No ! shells could not possibly harm it. His wife and sister 
lived there; it was his home. He was a prisoner, but whatever 
happened to him, the combined fury of the nations could not 
touch his home. 

Saniez ! Saniez ! May you never awaken from your dream ! 



THE NAME OF FRANCE ^ 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

Give us a name to fill the mind 
With the shining thoughts that lead mankind, 
The glory of learning, the joy of art, — 
A name that tells of a splendid part 
In the long, long toil and the strenuous fight 
Of the human race to win its way 
From the feudal darkness into the day 
Of Freedom, Brotherhood, Equal Right, — 
A name like a star, a name of light. 
I give you FRANCE ! 

Give us a name to stir the blood 
With a warmer glow and a swifter flood. 
At the touch of a courage that knows not fear, — 
A name like the sound of a trumpet, clear. 
And silver-sweet, and iron-strong. 
That calls three million men to their feet, 
Ready to march, and steady to meet 
The foes who threaten that name with wrong, — 
A name that rings like a battle-song. 
I give you FRANCE ! 

Give us a name to move the heart 
With the strength that noble griefs impart, 
1 From "The Red Flower," copyright, 1916, 1917, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



52 WAR READINGS 

A name that speaks of the blood outpoured 
To save mankind from the sway of the sword, — 
A name that calls on the world to share 
In the burden of sacrificial strife 
Where the cause at stake is the world's free life 
And the rule of the people everywhere, — 
A name like a vow, a name like a prayer. 
I give you FRANCE ! 



UNDER SHELL-FIRE AT DUNKIRK i 

ELLEN N. LA MOTTE 

We arrived in Dunkirk the evening of the twentieth of June, 
after a long, ten-hour trip from Paris — a journey which in normal 
times can be accomplished in three. Dunkirk is in the "war 
zone" and ranks as a fortified town of the first class, and no one 
is permitted to enter it without a special military permit, issued 
by the commander of that sector. However, as we were to join 
a field-hospital "somewhere in Belgium," and our permits had 
been forwarded to us in Paris, we had no difiiculty in getting 
there. On alighting from the train, we were not permitted to 
pass through the station till all our papers had been carefully 
examined — our passports and our safe-conducts from the Paris 
police, as well as our military passes; but all were in order, and 
after a careful scrutiny we were allowed to go through the gates. 
The first sensation on entering the war zone is that of being locked 
in. Only through the most rigid formalities had we been able to 
enter; only through the same formalities would we be permitted 
to leave. Individual liberty was gone; we were not free to come 
and go how and where we liked, but, under observation in the 
zone of the armies, we must share with the armies whatever fate 
had in store. It was a curious feeling, this sense of restriction, 
and one not altogether pleasant. The longer one stays in the 

iFrom The Atlantic Monthly, November, 1915. Copyright, 1915, by The At- 
lantic Monthly Co. Used by permission. 



UNDER SHELL-FIRE AT DUNKIRK 53 

military areas, the more this sense of being a prisoner at large 
weighs upon one. ... 

Shops were open and business thriving; the streets were full 
of civilians going about their daily tasks, unheeding, apparently, 
the threatening danger. Confidence was restored; there had been 
no bombardment for six weeks — had not the great guns been found 
and silenced by the Allies ? Yet apart from the few ruined houses 
— and not many at that — there were constant evidences of pre- 
caution. Across the panes of nearly every window strips of paper 
had been pasted, strips four inches wide, running diagonally from 
corner to corner across the glass, to reduce the shock of concus- 
sion. In the centre of the town stood the Hotel de Ville (City 
Hall), the windows on two floors completely blocked by sand-bags; 
and sand-bags, or bags full of ashes, lay before many a cellar win- 
dow. Here and there on the fronts of certain houses great notices 
were posted, printed in glaring letters of red upon white back- 
grounds. Refuge en cos d'alerte {" Refuge in case of alarm"), showing 
where cellars were available to which refugees might fly. Yet 
it was all over, the danger. Over long ago. The posters were 
torn, flapping from the walls; many of the sand-bags had holes in 
them, letting out streams of scattering sand or grimy ashes, which 
heedless pedestrians kicked along the footway. People strolled 
about unconcernedly, and normal life and normal interests were 
reasserting themselves, just as normal life in the individual re- 
asserts itself after intense suffering and pain. Whatever the 
horror of six weeks ago, it was all over now. The Allies had 
found and silenced the great guns. 

In the harbor, ships were coming and going; along the piers, 
dozens of fishermen had cast their nets, bringing in good catches 
of sardines, sole, and plaice, while knots of idle, amused soldiers 
loitered about each net, winding in the reels, and commenting 
volubly upon each haul. It was a day of glorious sunshine, of 
busy, homely occupation. As the afternoon advanced, we could 
hear guns rolling in the distance; the clear air, the absolute still- 
ness, brought the thunder down from Nieuport, from that "front" 



54 WAR READINGS 

off beyond on the vague horizon. Somewhere over there was 
"war," but here was harmony, tranquilhty, and peace. Later, 
we became aware that certain guns seemed to punctuate them- 
selves upon our consciousness, certain deeper, more sinister br-r-r- 
o-o-o-ms, which, by the watch, came roUing to us at three-minute 
intervals, but all so remote, so far away ! We were conscious 
only of the golden, fading sunlight, the sweet sea wind, the glitter- 
ing, sparkling water. We tried to imagine submarines in this 
North Sea, but failed. After the fever, the rush, the gossip, and 
intrigue of Paris, this war zone seemed restfulness and peace. 
So we went to bed that night, wind-burned and sleepy, wishing 
that the hospital might be ready for us soon. This comfort and 
idleness might soon become a bore. 

Next morning, the twenty-second of June, we were awakened 
by a terrific explosion. A Boche aviator had dropped a bomb 
just outside our windows ! Instantly anti-aircraft guns began 
firing, and I sprang from my bed to see French and English aero- 
planes rising, one by one, from the aerodrome in Dunkirk and 
flying, straight and menacing, in pursuit. It was very light, al- 
though the sun had not yet risen; quarter to three by my 
watch. . . . 

There were hundreds of people on the beach: French soldiers, 
who apparently slept in their clothes, for they were fully dressed 
and looked as crumpled as in the daytime; English Tommies, 
who, like ourselves, wore bath gowns over pajamas and showed 
other signs of a hasty toilet. Bare feet and slippered feet were 
everywhere. Every moment the crowd increased, ... all at- 
tention was centred upon the direction in which the Taube^ had 
disappeared, or upon the Allies' aeroplanes which sped low over- 
head in pursuit. Quite black the machines looked in that early 
light, for the sun had not yet risen to reflect itself upon the lumi- 
nous wings. 

Men, women, and children now began to flock out from the 
town, an ever-increasing stream, carrying bundles, leading mongrel 
'Tow' be, literally " dove " = German aeroplane. 



UNDER SHELL-FIRE AT DUNKIRK 55 

dogs, pushing perambulators laden with household possessions: 
a silent, anxious, restless crowd, seeking safety on the wide sands. 
Our gowns flapped in the fresh dawn breeze, and we became sud- 
denly conscious of the cold sand which trickled in over the tops 
of our slippers. There was nothing more to be seen, so we re- 
turned to the hotel. ... 

Suddenly we were startled by a deafening explosion, an ap- 
palling, rending crash — the earth shook, the hotel rocked ! We 
sprang to the balcony, and saw a dense column of smoke rising 
from the town, rising somewhere from the midst of those peaceful, 
red-tiled roofs that were just catching the first rays of the ris- 
ing sun. A great seventeen-inch shell, fired by a gun twenty- 
two miles away, had burst somewhere among those homes. Slowly 
the smoke rose and spread into the sky, the glorious sky of a June 
dawn. Not a word was spoken. The doctor glanced at his watch 
— 3.15 A. M. We waited silently on the balcony. Five minutes 
later another shell plunged downward with a roar. Another 
cloud of smoke marked its bursting. Then two ambulances, 
from the garage back of the hotel, dashed along the highroad 
into the town. Two more shells, and then a pause. In all, four 
shells at five-minute intervals, then a rest of forty minutes for the 
guns to cool. 

Mrs. A. gave the orders, "Go to bed," she commanded. "Get 
what sleep you can, till they begin again. After all, it's practi- 
cally three o'clock in the morning and we shall have a whole day of 
this." She, too, was an old campaigner, having been through 
a week's bombardment of Poperingue. So we went up-stairs 
and back to bed. 

This was my first experience of shell-fire, and as yet I did not 
know enough to be afraid. So far, it was only overwhelmingly 
interesting and exciting, and I was conscious of extreme regret 
that the light was not yet strong enough for photographs. The 
shells were passing completely over us, and falling a mile away. 
There was nothing to fear. 

I was just falling asleep in obedience to instructions, when 



56 WAR READINGS 

at five o'clock there came another tremendous crash. I dashed 
to the window to see the dense smoke rising in the air, roUing up- 
ward in great black billows, which a moment later were succeeded 
by tongues of fire. The flames mounted higher and higher, sink- 
ing for a moment only to leap upward again in fierce, increasing 
waves. We shouted to some Tommies passing below, to know 
what had been struck. Some said an oil-tank, others a tobacco 
factory, still others a jute works. One of them called up gayly: 
" I say ! This is part of their atrocities — waking us up so early 
in the morning ! " As each shell struck, another ambulance dashed 
along the highroad in a cloud of dust. Never an instant's hesita- 
tion on the part of these young fellows, English and American. 
They drove at top speed into the heart of the stricken town, into 
the midst of falling walls and splintering steel. It was superb 
courage. . . . 

While we were talking, two boys approached, each carrying a 
large canvas sack, filled with the fragments of a shell that had 
pitched down on the sand-dunes, a few hundred yards from the 
hotel. Some one shouted, "Souvenirs! Souvenirs!" and in a 
moment the two youths were surrounded by a curious, lively 
group, intent on bartering cigarettes and sous for these pieces of 
jagged steel, with fierce cutting edges. They were still warm, 
these terrible trophies, and had been red hot when the thrifty lads 
had fiirst gathered them in. 



VIVE LA FRANCE !i 

CHARLOTTE HOLMES CRAWFORD 

Franceline rose in the dawning gray, 
And her heart would dance though she knelt to pray. 
For her man Michel had holiday. 
Fighting for France. 

1 From Scribner's Magazine, September, 1916. Copyright, 1916, by Charles 
Scribner's Sons. 



VIVE LA FRANCE! 57 

She offered her prayer by the cradle-side, 
And with baby palms folded in hers she cried: 
"If I have but one prayer, dear, crucified 
Christ — save France ! 

"But if I have two, then, by Mary's grace. 
Carry me safe to the meeting-place. 
Let me look once again on my dear love's face. 
Save him for France!" 

She crooned to her boy: "Oh, how glad he'll be, 
Little three-months old, to set eyes on thee ! 
For, 'Rather than gold, would I give,' wrote he, 
'A son to France.' 

"Come, now, be good, little stray sauterelle,^ 
For we're going by-by to thy papa Michel, 
But I'll not say where for fear thou wilt tell. 
Little pigeon of France ! 

" Six days' leave and a year between I 
But what would you have? In six days clean. 
Heaven was made," said Franceline, 
"Heaven and France." 

She came to the town of the nameless name. 
To the marching troops in the street she came. 
And she held high her boy like a taper flame 
Burning for France. 

Fresh from the trenches and gray with grime. 
Silent they march like a pantomime; 
"But what need of music? My heart beats time — 
Vive la France !" 

Then out of the ranks a comrade fell, — 
"Yesterday — 'twas a splinter of shell — 
' So t6r 61 = grasshopper. 



58 WAR READINGS 

And he whispered thy name, did thy poor Michel, 
Dying for France," 

The tread of the troops on the pavement throbbed 
Like a woman's heart of its last joy robbed. 
As she lifted her boy to the flag, and sobbed: 
"VIVE LA FRANCE!" 



LITTLE ORPHANED ALLIES ^ 

ELEANOR FRANKLIN EGAN 

In France one seems always to be looking into the wondering 
eyes of bewildered children. They are everywhere. They see 
their mothers weep and hear strange sad talk among their elders, 
and their little lives are thrilled with unforgetable but uncompre- 
hended things. 

"Father has been killed." 

"Father has fallen on the field of honor." 

" Et puis, vive la France : " 

And an unchildlike bravery begins to shine upon their brows. 

France has lost more than one million men ! So many more 
by this time, in fact, that to one million might be added the total 
cost in lives of our Civil War, with a resulting estimate that 
would hardly be an exaggeration at all. And at the beginning 
of last November (1916) another tremendous estimate was made: 
more than four hundred thousand needy fatherless children — 
those children only whose fathers have " died on the field of honor." 

I had not been in France two days before I began to notice the 
children particularly; and after a while they began to haunt me. 

I went down into Lorraine almost immediately to see that 
amazing strip of devastated territory into which the Germans 
plunged in the beginning with their too-damnable combination 
of fire and sword. I saw a whole countryside — miles on miles — 

1 From The Saturday Evening Post. Copyright, 1917. by Eleanor Franklin Egan. 
Used by permission. 



ALL FOR, ONE AlslD ONE FOR. ALL! 

VIVE l*yte?ANCE! 




ADied Tribute to France: July 14, at 8 p, m. 



MASS MEETING on the French NaUonal Hobday 
to show we all stand together tfll we win Peace by Victory 



Drawn by James Montgomery Flagg. 



LITTLE ORPHANED ALLIES 59 

laid waste, with all its beautiful old towns and once charming 
villages nothing now but heaps of ruins. On a hilltop — which 
was an intricate maze of abandoned trenches — I climbed up on 
the crumbling outer wall of what was once a monastery, a noble 
ancient building, and looked out across a shell-ploughed country 
to two white lines in the middle distance, where the French and 
German armies were deadlocked in a long-drawn-out and inter- 
mittent duel. And in all the vast area I could see from my vantage- 
point there was not one visible living thing, except a long column 
of troops winding its way down a hill road toward a deserted mass 
of stone and plaster dust that had been a smiling village in a shel- 
tered cup of the valley. A few observation-balloons hung brood- 
ing over the scene, long distances apart; while here and there a 
slender, shattered church-spire rose above the general desolation. 

Mme. Juliette and Her Little Mister 

I wanted to see the people who had fled before the ravaging 
storm of frightfulness that had swept over this beautiful land. 
And I did. I found as many as three thousand of them in a 
refuge at Nancy, and many others hidden away among the ruins 
of the towns and villages and farmsteads. 

Little Raymond was the first real war orphan I encountered, 
but afterward, as I say, I seemed always to be seeing them. Ray- 
mond got himself scolded for being timid. 

" You must not cling to my skirts and act all the time as though 
you are afraid, my little mister," said his mother. 

She calls him her petit monsieur because, though he is only six 
years old, he is the only man left in the family. His father lies in 
a soldier's grave over behind the German lines in a village near 
the French Border. And when the Germans were advancing she 
had to gather him up, along with his aged grandmother, and flee 
for her life and theirs. Their flight was so hurried and tearful; 
there was such a booming of guns and screeching of shells; and 
there were so many horrible things to be seen along the roadsides. 



60 WAR READINGS 

that Raymond was frightened speechless, and has never been the 
same boy since. He used to chatter and laugh all the time; but 
he grew very solemn after that, seldom laughs at all any more, 
and almost never says anything. 

They were an interesting family — Raymond; his mother, 
Juliette; and his little round old grandmother, who was known as 
Madame Charlotte. And they had a big white cow they called 
Beautiful Sister. In their flight they drove Beautiful Sister along 
in front of them and trundled behind them a cart of household 
treasures; so, though they were very hard up, they were not 
utterly destitute. Beautiful Sister was a rare specimen in her new 
environment, and she gave milk that could be traded for vegetables 
and bread. 

They came, by mere chance, into the small village where I 
found them; and when the battle caught up with them they 
were so tired and perplexed that they merely sought such shelter 
as they could find, and let it rage on round them and over their 
heads. And that helped, of course, to overwhelm the childhood of 
le petit monsieur. It was near the point where the tide turned 
and the Germans began to fall back; and they must have been 
very angry Germans indeed, since in that unoffending village they 
left not one stone upon another — except up in one corner, where 
three or four houses escaped the fire; and even these were pocked 
and pitted with thousands of bullet marks. Raymond and his 
family took possession of a sort of half ruin, off in another corner; 
and Juliette had shown fine skill in the way she had filled its gaps 
with fallen stones and propped up its tottering walls. 

The grandmother was inclined to be good-naturedly ill-natured, 
if any one can be so described. She wanted very much to find 
fault, but everything was so terrible, and her daughter-in-law 
was so sturdy and brave, that she had to do all her complaining 
as though she were merely joking about it. She was not. Her 
clean old peasant life had been pulled up by the roots and she had 
a well-defined case of nervous irritability. She accused Juliette 
of spending all her time in the fields- with Beautiful Sister, and 



LITTLE ORPHANED ALLIES 61 

mimicked her holding on to the cow's horn and talking secrets, 
"like a woman with no sense at all." 

" And with le petit monsieur, of course, always at her heels ! " 

Juliette smilingly admitted that she did spend too much time 
doing that very thing. 

" But/' she said, " La Belle Soeur is a perfect stupid ! I may 
talk to her as much as I like, but she will not know enough to 
keep off the graves. I cannot bear that she should eat grass off 
the graves; so I must lead her round." 

I could quite understand that. All the fields are dotted with 
graves, lying at every imaginable angle. At the head of each 
grave is a white wooden cross, and on nearly every cross hangs a 
bright bead wreath of some kind — pansies mostly. Such graves 
are in all the fields all over that part of Lorraine; and along the 
roadsides too — especially along the roadsides : hundreds of them — 
marking the lines of a terrible running battle in the open. 

In Raymond's village there were fifteen other children, most of 
them fatherless. Out of a population of about three hundred, 
forty men had gone to the army — all who were young enough; 
and many others, men, women, and children, had been killed in 
the local fighting. So there were only about one hundred left, 
and some of these, like Raymond and his family, belonged else- 
where. A good many among this one hundred-odd had fled in 
front of the advancing Germans; but they returned later to dig 
and delve, and take up their lives amid the wreckage of their 
homes, as thousands have done everywhere. Among French 
peasants there is a kind of dumb, tenacious content, which is a 
very difficult thing to break, and the sight of it, harried and 
heartbroken, makes one hate war as the more spectacularly horri- 
ble phases of war never could. 



A SCRAP OF PAPER 1 

"Will you go to war just for a scrap of paper?" — Question of the German 
Chancellor to the British Ambassador, August 5, 1914. 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

The author of this poem and three others printed in this book is the 
minister of the United States to the Netherlands. He was in Europe at 
the outbreak of war in 1914. "Scrap of Paper" refers to a treaty that 
both Great Britain and Prussia had signed to respect and protect the 
neutraUty of Belgium. 

A mocking question ! Britain's answer came 
Swift as the light and searching as the flame. 

"Yes, for a scrap of paper we will fight 

Till our last breath, and God defend the right! 

"A scrap of paper where a name is set 

Is strong as duty's pledge and honor's debt. 

"A scrap of paper holds for man and wife 
The sacrament of love, the bond of life. 

"A scrap of paper may be Holy Writ 
With God's eternal word to hallow it. 

"A scrap of paper binds us both to stand 
Defenders of a neutral neighbor land. 

" By God, by faith, by honor, yes ! We fight 
To keep our name upon that paper white." 

September, 1914. 
iFrom "The Red Flower," copyright, 1916, 1917, by Charles Scrlbner's Sons. 



62 



I 



KITCHENER'S MOB^ 

JAMES NORMAN HALL 

Mr. Hall was an American college student travelling through England 
at the outbreak of war in 1914 and, unable to resist the call to arms, enhsted 
among the British volunteers that made up the armies known as "Kitch- 
ener's Mob," because Lord Kitchener was then head of the War Office 
and had the duty of raising British armies. In the selections given here 
he describes the army and its training, the barracks or billets in which 
troops were quartered near the front, and the entrance of a company 
into the front-line trenches. Mr. Hall went through some of the severest 
of fighting. He secured his discharge from the British army, but the 
fascination of the soldier's life proved so strong that he has again en- 
listed, this time in a Franco-American aviation corps. He seemed to 
bear a charmed life, for in 1917 as a war-flier he received a severe wound 
in the lungs in a single-handed combat with seven enemy planes, a wound 
from which he recovered to fight other successful battles in the air. In 
May, 1918, he was brought down in the German lines in a sensational 
battle and made a prisoner. 

"Kitchener's Mob" they were called in the early days of Au- 
gust, 1914, when London hoardings were clamorous with the first 
calls for volunteers. The seasoned regulars of the first British 
expeditionary force said it patronizingly, the great British public 
hopefully, the world at large, doubtfully. "Kitchener's Mob," 
when there was but a scant sixty thousand under arms with mil- 
lions yet to come, "Kitchener's Mob" it remains to-day, fighting 
in hundreds of thousands in France, Belgium, Africa, the Bal- 
kans. And to-morrow, when the war is ended, who will come 
marching home again, old campaigners, war-worn remnants of 
once mighty armies? "Kitchener's Mob." 

It is not a pleasing name for the greatest volunteer army in 
the history of the world; for more than three millions of tough- 
ened, disciplined, fighting men, united under one flag, all parts 
of one magnificent military organization. And yet Kitchener's 
own Tommies are responsible for it, the rank and file, with their 
inherent love of ridicule even at their own expense. . . . 

1 From "Kitchener's Mob." Copyright, 1915, by The Houghton Miffin Co. 
Used by special arrangement with the publishers. 



63 



64 WAR READINGS 

"A mob" is genuinely descriptive of the array of would-be 
soldiers which crowded the long parade-ground at Hounslow Bar- 
racks during that memorable last week in August. We herded 
together like so many sheep. We had lost our individuality, and 
it was to be months before we regained it in a new aspect, a col- 
lective individuality of which we became increasingly proud. 
We squeak-squawked across the barrack square in boots which 
felt large enough for an entire family of feet. Our khaki service 
dress uniforms were strange and uncomfortable. Our hands 
hung limply along the seams of our pocketless trousers. Having 
no place in which to conceal them, and nothing for them to do, 
we tried to ignore them. Many a Tommy, in a moment of for- 
getfulness, would make a dive for the friendly pockets which were 
no longer there. The look of sheepish disappointment, as his 
hands slid limply down his trouser-legs, was most comical to see. 
Before many days we learned the uses to which soldiers' hands 
are put. But for the moment they seemed absurdly unnecessary. 

We must have been unpromising material from the military 
point of view. That was evidently the opinion of my own platoon 
sergeant. I remember, word for word, his address of welcome, 
one of soldier-like brevity and pointedness, delivered while we 
stood awkwardly at attention on the barrack square. 

"Lissen 'ere, you men! I've never saw such a raw, roun'- 
shouldered batch o' rookies in fifteen years' service. Yer pasty- 
faced an' yer thin-chested. Gawd 'elp 'is Majesty if it ever lays 
with you to save 'im ! 'Owever, we're 'ere to do wot we can with 
wot we got. Now, then, upon the command, 'Form Fours,' I 
wanna see the even numbers tyke a pace to the rear with the left 
foot, an' one to the right with the right foot. Like so : ' One-one- 
two!' Platoon! Form Fours! Oh! Orful! Orful ! As y' 
were! As y' were!" 

If there was doubt in the minds of any of us as to our rawness, 
it was quickly dispelled by our platoon sergeants, regulars of long 
standing, who had been left in England to assist in whipping the 
new armies into shape. Naturally, they were disgruntled at this. 



KITCHENER'S MOB 65 

and we offered them such splendid opportunities for working off 
overcharges of spleen. We had come to Hounslow, believing that, 
within a few weeks' time, we should be fighting in France, side by 
side with the men of the first British expeditionary force. Lord 
Kitchener had said that six months of training, at the least, 
was essential. This statement we regarded as intentionally mis- 
leading. Lord Kitchener was too shrewd a soldier to announce 
his plans; but England needed men badly, immediately. After 
a week of training, we should be proficient in the use of our rifles. 
In addition to this, all that we needed was the ability to form 
fours and march, in column of route, to the station where we should 
entrain for Folkestone or Southampton, and France. 

As soon as the battalion was up to strength, we were given a 
day of preliminary drill before proceeding to our future training 
area in Essex. It was a disillusioning experience. Equally dis- 
appointing was the undignified display of our little skill, at Char- 
ing Cross Station, where we performed before a large and amused 
London audience. For my own part, I could scarcely wait until 
we were safely hidden within the train. During the journey to 
Colchester, a re-enlisted Boer War veteran, from the inaccessible 
heights of South African experience, enfiladed us with a fire of 
sarcastic comment. 

" I'm a-go'n' to transfer out o' this 'ere mob, that's wot I'm a- 
go'n' to do ! 'Soldiers ! S'y !' I'll bet a quid they ain't a one of 
you ever saw a rifle before ! 'Soldiers ? Strike me pink !' Wot's 
Lord Kitchener a-doin' of, that's wot I want to know!" 

The rest of us smoked in wrathful silence, until one of the 
boys demonstrated to the Boer War veteran that he knew, at 
least, how to use his fists. There was some bloodshed, followed 
by reluctant apologies on the part of the Boer warrior. It was one 
of innumerable differences of opinion which I witnessed during the 
months that followed. And most of them were settled in the 
same decisive way. 

Although mine was a London regiment, we had men in the 
ranks from all parts of the United Kingdom. There were North- 



66 WAR READINGS 

Countrymen, a few Welsh, Scotch, and Irish, men from the Mid- 
lands and from the south of England. But for the most part we 
were Cockneys, born within the sound of Bow Bells. I had planned 
to follow the friendly advice of the recruiting sergeant. "Talk 
like 'em," he had said. Therefore, I struggled bravely with the 
peculiarities of the Cockney twang, recklessly dropped aitches 
when I should have kept them and prefixed them indiscrimi- 
nately before every convenient aspirate. But all my efforts were 
useless. The imposition was apparent to my fellow Tommies 
immediately. I had only to begin speaking, within the hearing 
of a genuine Cockney, when he would say : " 'Ello ! w'ere do you 
come from ? The Stites ? " or, " I'll bet a tanner you're a Yank ! " 
I decided to make a confession, and I have been glad, ever since, 
that I did. The boys gave me a warm and hearty welcome when 
they learned that I was a sure-enough American. They called 
me "Jamie the Yank." I was a piece of tangible evidence of the 
bond of sympathy existing between the two great English-speaking 
nations. I told them of the many Americans of German extrac- 
tion, whose sympathies were honestly and sincerely on the other 
side. But they would not have it so. I was the personal repre- 
sentative of the American people. My presence in the British 
army was proof positive of this. 

Being an American, it was very hard, at first, to understand 
the class distinctions of British army life. And having under- 
stood them it was more difficult yet to endure them. I learned 
that a ranker, or private soldier, is a socially inferior being from 
the officer's point of view. The officer class and the ranker class 
are east and west, and never the twain shall meet, except in their 
respective places upon the parade-ground. This does not hold 
good, to the same extent, upon active service. Hardships and 
dangers, shared in common, tend to break down artificial barriers. 
But even then, although there was good-will and friendliness be- 
tween officers and men, I saw nothing of genuine comradeship. 
This seemed to me a great pity. It was a loss for the officers 
fully as much as it was for the men. 



KITCHENER'S MOB 67 

Completing Its Training. — We learned how orders are passed 
down the Hne, from sentry to sentry, quietly, and with the speed 
of a man running. We learned how the sentries are posted and 
their duties. We saw the intricate mazes of telephone wires, 
and the men of the signalling corps at their posts in the trenches, 
in communication with brigade, divisional, and army corps head- 
quarters. We learned how to "sleep" five men in a four-by-six 
dugout; and, when there are no dugouts, how to hunch up on the 
firing-benches with our water-proof sheets over our heads, and 
doze, with our knees for a pillow. We learned the order of prece- 
dence for troops in the communication trenches. 

"Never forget that! Outgoin' troops 'as the right o' way. 
They ain't 'ad no rest, an' they're all slathered in mud, likely, 
an' dead beat fer sleep. Incomin' troops is fresh, an' they stands 
to one side to let the others pass." 

We saw the listening patrols go out at night, through the under- 
ground passage which leads to the far side of the barbed-wire 
entanglements. From there they creep far out between the 
opposing lines of trenches, to keep watch upon the movements 
of the enemy, and to report the presence of his working parties 
or patrols. This is dangerous, nerve-trying work, for the men sent 
out upon it are exposed not only to the shots of the enemy, but 
to the wild shots of their own comrades as well. I saw one patrol 
come in just before dawn. One of the men brought with him a 
piece of barbed wire, clipped from the German entanglements two 
hundred and fifty yards away. . . . 

I was tremendously interested. At that time it seemed incredi- 
ble to me that men crawled over to the Germati lines in this man- 
ner and clipped pieces of German wire for souvenirs. 

"Did you hear anything?" I asked him. 

" 'Eard a flute some Fritzie was a-playin' of. An' you ought to 
'ave 'eard 'em a-singin' ! " 

Billets. — The most interesting feature of our life in billets was 
the contact which it gave us with the civilian population who 
remained in the war zone, either because they had no place else 



68 WAR READINGS 

to go, or because of that indomitable, unconquerable spirit which 
is characteristic of the French. There are few British soldiers 
along the western front who do not have memories of the heroic 
mothers who clung to their ruined homes as long as there was a 
wall standing. It was one of these who summed up for me, in 
five words, all the heart-breaking tragedy of war. 

She kept a little shop, in Armentieres, on one of the streets 
leading to the firing-line. We often stopped there, when go- 
ing up to the trenches, to buy loaves of delicious French bread. 
She had candles for sale as well, and chocolate, and packets of 
stationery. Her stock was exhausted daily, and in some way 
replenished daily. I think she made long journeys to the other 
side of the town, bringing back fresh supplies in a push-cart which 
stood outside her door. Her cottage, which was less than a mile 
from our first-line trenches, was partly in ruins. I couldn't 
understand her being there in such danger. Evidently it was 
with the consent of the military authorities. There were other 
women living on the same street; but somehow, she was differ- 
ent from the others. There was a spiritual fineness about her 
which impressed one at once. Her eyes were dry as though 
the tears had been drained from them, to the last drop, long 
ago. 

One day, calling for a packet of candles, I found her standing 
at the barricaded window which looks tow^ard the trenches, and 
the desolate towns and villages back of the German lines. My 
curiosity got the better of my courtesy, and I asked her, in my 
poor French, why she was living there. She was silent for a 
moment, and then she pointed toward that part of France which 
was on the other side of the world to us. 

"Monsieur! Mes enfants! La-bas!" ("Sir! My children! 
Over there!") 

Her children were over there, or had been at the outbreak of 
the war. That is all that she told me of her story, and I would 
have been a beast to have asked more. In some way she had be- 
come separated from them, and for nearly a year she had been 



KITCHENER'S MOB 69 

watching there, not knowing whether her httle family was living 
or dead. 

To many of the soldiers she was just a plain, thrifty little French- 
woman who knew not the meaning of fear, willing to risk her life 
daily, that she might put by something for the long, hard years 
which would follow the war. To me she is the Spirit of France, 
splendid, superb France. But more than this she is the Spirit of 
Mother-love which wars can never alter. 

Strangely enough, I had not thought of the firing-line as a bound- 
ary, a limit, during all those weeks of trench warfare. Hence- 
forth it had a new meaning for me. I realized how completely 
it cut Europe in half, separating friends and relatives as thou- 
sands of miles of ocean could not have done. Roads crossed from 
one side to the other but they were barricaded with sand-bags and 
barbed-wire entanglements. At night they were deluged with 
shrapnel, and the cobblestones were chipped and scarred with 
machine-gun bullets. 

Tommy had a ready sympathy for the women and children who 
lived near the trenches. I remember many incidents which 
illustrate abundantly his quick understanding of the hardship 
and danger of their lives. Once, at Armentieres, we were march- 
ing to the baths, when the German artillery were shelling the 
town in the usual hit-or-miss fashion. The enemy knew, of course, 
that many of our troops in reserve were billeted there, and they 
searched for them daily. Doubtless they would have destroyed 
the town long ago had it not been for the fact that Lille, one of 
their own most important bases, is within such easy range of our 
batteries. As it was, they bombarded it as heavily as they dared, 
and on this particular morning, they were sending them over too 
frequently for comfort. 

Some of the shells were exploding close to our line of march, 
but the boys tramped along with that nonchalant air which they 
assume in times of danger. One immense shell struck an empty 
house less than a block away and sent the masonry flying in 
every direction. The cloud of brick-dust shone like gold in the 



70 WAR READINGS 

sun. A moment later, a fleshy peasant woman, wearing wooden 
shoes, turned out of an adjoining street and ran awkwardly toward 
the scene of the explosion. Her movements were so clumsy and 
slow, in proportion to the great exertion she was making, that at 
any other time the sight would have been ludicrous. Now it 
was inevitable that such a sight should first appeal to Tommy's 
sense of humor, and thoughtlessly the boys started laughing and 
shouting at her. 

"Go it, old dear! Yer makin' a grand race!" 

" Two to one on Liza ! " 

" The other w'y, ma ! That's the wrong direction ! Yer 
runnin' right into 'em I " 

She gave no heed, and a moment later we saw her gather up a 
little girl from a door-step, hugging and comforting her, and shield- 
ing her with her body, instinctively, at the sound of another ex- 
ploding shell. The laughter in the ranks stopped as though every 
man had been suddenly struck dumb. 

Moving into New Lodgings. — We were wet and tired and cold 
and hungry, for we had left the train miles back of the firing-line 
and had been marching through the rain since early morning; 
but, as the sergeant said : " A bloke standin' by the side o' the road, 
watchin' this 'ere column pass, would think we was a-go'n' to a 
Sunday-school picnic." The roads were filled with endless pro- 
cessions of singing, shouting soldiers. Seen from a distance, the 
long columns gave the appearance of imposing strength. One 
thought of them as battalions, brigades, divisions, cohesive parts 
of a great fighting-machine. But when our lines of march crossed, 
when we halted to make way for each other, what an absorbing 
pageant of personality ! Each rank was a series of intimate pic- 
tures. Everywhere there was laughing, singing, a merry min- 
strelsy of mouth-organs. 

The jollity in my own part of the line was doubtless a picture 
m little of what was happening elsewhere. 

I remember that march in the light of our later experiences, in 
the light of the oflScial report of the total British casualties at 



KITCHENER'S MOB 71 

Loos: sixty thousand British lads killed, wounded, and missing. 
Marching four abreast, a column of casualties miles in length. 
I see them plodding light-heartedly through the mud as they did 
on that gray September day, their faces wet with the rain, "an' 
a bloke standin' by the side of the road would think they was 
a-go'n' to a Sunday-school picnic. . . ." We halted in the eve- 
ning at a little mining village, and were billeted for the night in 
houses, stables, and even in the water-soaked fields, for there was 
not sufficient accommodation for all of us. With a dozen of my 
comrades I slept on the floor in the kitchen of a miner's cottage, 
and listened, far into the night, to the constant procession of motor 
ambulances, the tramp of marching feet, the thunder of guns, the 
rattle of windows, and the sound of breaking glass. 

The following day we spent in cleaning our rifles, which were 
caked with rust, and in washing our clothes. We had to put 
these, still wet, into our packs, for at dusk we fell in, in column 
of route, along the village street, when our officers told us what 
was before us. I remember how vividly and honestly one of 
them described the situation. 

" Listen carefully, men. We are moving off in a few moments, 
to take over captured German trenches on the left of Loos. No 
one knows yet just how the land lies there. The reports we have 
had are confused and rather conflicting. The boys you are going 
to relieve have been having a hard time. The trenches are full 
of dead. Those who are left are worn out with the strain, and 
they need sleep. They won't care to stop long after you come 
in, so you must not expect much information from them. You 
will have to find out things for yourselves. But I know you well 
enough to feel certain that you will. From now on you'll not have 
it easy. You will have to sit tight under a heavy fire from the 
German batteries. You will have to repulse counter-attacks, 
for they will make every effort to retake those trenches. But 
remember ! 'You're British soldiers !' Whatever happens you've 
got to hang on!" 

We marched down a road nearly a foot deep in mud. It had 



72 WAR READINGS 

been churned to a thick paste by thousands of feet and all the 
heavy- wheel traffic incident to the business of war. The rain 
was still coming down steadily, and it was pitch dark, except for 
the reflected light, on the low-hanging clouds, of the flashes from 
the guns of our batteries and those of the bursting shells of the 
enemy. We halted frequently, to make way for long files of 
ambulances which moved as rapidly as the darkness and the 
awful condition of the roads would permit. I counted twenty of 
them during one halt, and then stopped, thinking of the pain of 
the poor fellows inside, their wounds wrenched and torn by the 
constant pitching and jolting. We had vivid glimpses of them 
by the light from flashing guns, and of the Red Cross attendants 
at the rear of the cars, steadying the upper tiers of stretchers on 
either side. The heavy garrison artillery was by this time far 
behind us. The big shells went over with a hollow roar like the 
sound of an express-train heard at a distance. Field-artillery 
was concealed in the ruins of houses on every side. The guns 
were firing at a tremendous rate, the shells exploding several 
miles away with a sound of jarring thunderclaps. 

In addition to the ambulances there was a constant stream of 
outgoing traffic of other kinds: despatch-riders on motor-cycles, 
feeling their way cautiously along the side of the road; ammuni- 
tion supply and battalion transport wagons, the horses rearing 
and plunging in the darkness. We approached a crossroad and 
halted to make way for some batteries of field-pieces moving to new 
positions. They went by on a slippery cobbled road, the horses 
at a dead gallop. In the red lightnings of heavy-gun fire they 
looked like a series of splendid sculptured groups. 

We moved on and halted, moved on again, stumbled into ditches 
to get out of the way of headquarters cars and motor-lorries, 
jumped up and pushed on. Every step through the thick mud 
was taken with an effort. We frequently lost touch with the troops 
ahead of us and would have to march at the double in order to 
catch up. . . . 

We halted to wait for our trench guides at the village of Ver- 



FORWARD ! 




Forv/ard to Victory 

ENLIST NO^V 

Published by the Parliamentary Recruiting Committee, London. 



KITCHENER'S MOB 73 

melles, about three miles back of our lines. The men lay down 
thankfully in the mud and many were soon asleep despite the 
terrific noise. Our batteries, concealed in the ruins of houses, 
were keeping up a steady fire and the German guns were replying 
almost as hotly. The weird flashes lit up the shattered walls 
with a fascinating, bizarre effect. By their light I saw men 
lying with their heads thrown back over their pack-sacks, their 
rifles leaning across their bodies; others standing in attitudes of 
suspended animation. The noise was deafening. One was 
thrown entirely upon his own resources for comfort and com- 
panionship, for it was impossible to converse. While we were 
waiting for the order to move, a homeless dog put his cold nose 
into my hand. I patted him and he crept up close beside me. 
Every muscle in his body was quivering. I wanted to console him 
in his own language. But I knew very little French, and I should 
have had to shout into his ear at the top of my voice to have made 
myself heard. When we marched on I lost him. And I never 
saw him again. 

It is an unpleasant experience, marching under fire, on top of 
the ground, even though it is dark and the enemy is shelling hap- 
hazardly. We machine-gunners were always heavily loaded. In 
addition to the usual infantryman's burden, we had our machine- 
guns to carry, and our ammunition, water-supply, tools, and 
instruments. We were very eager to get under cover, but we 
had to go slowly. By the time we reached our trench we were 
nearly exhausted. 

The men whom we were to relieve were packed up, ready to 
move out, when we arrived. We threw our rifles and equipment 
on the parapet and stood close to the side of the trench to allow 
them to pass. They were cased in mud. Their faces, which I 
saw by the glow of matches or lighted cigarettes, were haggard 
and worn. A week's growth of beard gave them a wild and bar- 
baric appearance. They talked eagerly. . . . 

. . . They were soon gone and we were left in ignorance of 
the situation. 



74 WAR READINGS 

. . . About one o'clock, we witnessed the fascinating spectacle 
of a counter-attack at night. 

It came with the dramatic suddenness, the striking spectacular 
display, of a motion-picture battle. The pictorial effect seemed 
extravagantly overdrawn. 

There was a sudden hurricane of rifle and machine-gun fire, 
and in an instant all the desolate landscape was revealed under 
the light of innumerable trench rockets. We saw the enemy ad- 
vancing in irregular lines to the attack. They were exposed to 
a pitiless infantry fire. I could follow the curve of our trenches on 
the left by the almost solid sheet of flame issuing from the rifles of 
our comrades against whom the assault was launched. The artil- 
lery ranged upon the advancing lines at once, and the air was filled 
with the roar of bursting shells and the melancholy whing-g-g-g-g 
of flying shrapnel. 

I did not believe that any one could cross that fire-swept area 
alive, but before many moments we heard the staccato of burst- 
ing bombs and hand-grenades which meant that some of the 
enemy, at least, were within striking distance. There was a sharp 
crescendo of deafening sound, then, gradually, the firing ceased, 

and word came down the line : " Counter-attack against the 

Guards, and jolly well beaten off too." 



LANGEMARCK ^ 

WILFRID CAMPBELL 

This is the ballad of Langemarck, 

A story of glory and might; 
Of the vast Hun horde, and Canada's part 

In the great grim fight. 

It was April fair on the Flanders Fields, 

But the dreadest April then 

1 From " Langemarck and Other Poems," copyright, 1918, by The Musson Book 
Co., Toronto, publishers. Used by permission. 



LANGEMARCK 75 

That ever the years, in their fateful flight. 
Had brought to this world of men. 

North and east, a monster wall, 

The mighty Hun ranks lay. 
With fort on fort, and iron-ringed trench. 

Menacing, grim and gray. 

And south and west, like a serpent of fire. 

Serried the British lines. 
And in between, the dying and dead. 
And the stench of blood, and the trampled mud. 

On the fair, sweet Belgian vines. 

And far to the eastward, harnessed and taut. 

Like a scimitar, shining and keen. 
Gleaming out of that ominous gloom, 

Old France's hosts were seen. 

When out of the grim Hun lines one night. 

There rolled a sinister smoke; — 
A strange, weird cloud, like a pale, green shroud. 

And death lurked in its cloak. 

On a fiendlike wind it curled along 

Over the brave French ranks. 
Like a monster tree its vapors spread. 

In hideous, burning banks 
Of poisonous fumes that scorched the night 

With their sulphurous demon danks. 

And men went mad with horror, and fled 

From that terrible, strangling death. 
That seemed to sear both body and soul 

With its baleful, flaming breath. 



76 WAR READINGS 

Till even the little dark men of the south. 

Who feared neither God nor man, 
Those fierce, wild fighters of Afric's steppes. 

Broke their battalions and ran: — 

Ran as they never had run before, 

Gasping, and fainting for breath; 
For they knew 'twas no human foe that slew; 

And that hideous smoke meant death. 

Then red in the reek of that evil cloud. 

The Hun swept over the plain; 
And the murderer's dirk did its monster work, 

'Mid the scythelike shrapnel rain; 

Till it seemed that at last the brute Hun hordes 

Had broken that wall of steel; 
And that soon, through this breach in the freeman's 
dyke. 

His trampling hosts would wheel; — 

And sweep to the south in ravaging might, 

And Europe's peoples again 
Be trodden under the tyrant's heel. 

Like herds, in the Teuton pen. 

But in that line on the British right, 

There massed a corps amain, 
Of men who hailed from a Far West land 

Of mountain and forest and plain; 

Men new to war and its dreadest deeds, 

But noble and stanch and true; 
Men of the open, East and West, 

Brew of old Britain's brew. 



LANGEMARCK 77 

These were the men out there that night. 

When Hell loomed close ahead; 
Who saw that pitiful, hideous rout. 

And breathed those gases dread; 
While some went under and some went mad; 

But never a man there jQed. 

For the word was "Canada," theirs to fight. 

And keep on fighting still; — 
Britain said, fight, and fight they would. 
Though the Devil himself in sulphurous mood 

Came over that hideous hill. 

Yea, stubborn, they stood, that hero band. 

Where no soul hoped to live; 
For five, 'gainst eighty thousand men. 

Were hopeless odds to give. 

Yea, fought they on ! 'Twas Friday eve. 

When that demon gas drove down; 
'Twas Saturday eve that saw them still 

Grimly holding their own; 

Sunday, Monday, saw them yet, 

A steadily lessening band. 
With "no surrender" in their hearts, 

But the dream of a far-off land. 

Where mother and sister and love would weep 

For the hushed heart lying still; — 
But never a thought but to do their part, 

And work the Empire's will. 

Ringed round, hemmed in, and back to back. 
They fought there under the dark. 



78 WAR READINGS 

And won for Empire, God, and Right, 
At grim, red Langemarek. 

Wonderful battles have shaken this world. 

Since the Dawn-God overthrew Dis; 
Wonderful struggles of right against wrong, 
Sung in the rhymes of the world's great song, 
But never a greater than this. 

Bannockburn, Inkerman, Balaclava, 

Marathon's godlike stand; 
But never a more heroic deed, 
And never a greater warrior breed, 

In any war-man's land. 

This is the ballad of Langemarek, 

A story of glory and might; 
Of the vast Hun horde, and Canada's part 

In the great, grim fight. 



PRIVATE PEATi 

HAROLD R. PEAT 



The author of "Private Peat" enlisted in a company of volunteers 
at Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, in the first weeks of the war, in 1914. 
Because of physical defects he was at first refused and it was only by 
persistence that he got himself accepted. He was among the Canadian 
troops who fought so bravely and who suffered great losses in the region 
around Ypres. His book has been one of the most popular of "war 
books." Private Peat was wounded in action and discharged from the 
service. The selections given here tell of the first march to the battle-front, 
the joy of getting mail, the refugee Belgians, and a Canadian charge. 

Are We Downhearted? No! 

" Hush, boys, . . . we're in enemy country ! " our second in 

command whispered ominously. We shivered. The sound of 

1 From "Private Peat," copyright, 1917, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Used 
by special permission of the publishers. 



PRIVATE PEAT 79 

the guns seemed to grow louder. Captain Johnson repeated his 
warning : 

"Not a word, men," he muttered, and we stumbled out of the 
station in silence that could be cut with a knife. Sure enough 
the enemy was near. He couldn't have been less than twenty- 
two miles away ! We could hear him. There was no disposi- 
tion on our part to talk aloud. Captain Johnson said, "Whis- 
per," and whisper we did. 

We trekked over mud holes and ditches, across fields and down 
through valleys. We had many impressions — and the main im- 
pression was mud. The main impression of all active service is — 
mud. It was silent mud, too, but we knew it was there. Once 
in a while during that dark treading through an unfamiliar coun- 
try one of the boys would stumble and fall face down. Then the 
mud spoke . . . and it did not whisper. There were grunts and 
murmurings, there were gurgling expletives and splutterings 
which sent the army, and all fools who joined it, to places of un- 
mentionable climatic conditions; we were in it up to our necks, 
more or less literally. 

All the way along we could see the flashes of star-shells. When 
one went up we could fancy the battalion making a "duck" in 
perfect unison. The star-shells seemed very close. It was still 
for us to learn that they always seem close. 

After about seven miles of this trekking, we reached billets.^ 
This was our first experience of French billets. The rest-house 
was a barn and we were pretty lucky. We had straw to lie 
on. 

Notwithstanding our distance from the enemy, as Captain 
Johnson had said, we were in his country, and in consequence 
there had to be a guard. Four of the boys were picked for the 
job. There was no change in my luck. I was one of the chosen 
four. 

The guard-room, whether for good or ill, was set in a chicken- 
house. And thereby hangs a tale-feather. Corporal of the guard 
1 Soldier's lodgings. 



80 WAR READINGS 

was a sport. He was a young chap from Red Deer, Alberta. 
Now, figure the situation for yourself. For days past we had 
been feeding on bully-beef — bully-beef out of a tin. Four men on 
guard, a dozen chickens perched not a dozen feet away. Would 
abstemiousness be human? Ask yourselves, mes amis (my 
friends). 

We drew lots. My luck had turned. But I ate of it. It was 
tender; it was good; it was roasted to a turn. 

They say dead men tell no tales. Of dead chicken there is no 
such proverb. Wish there had been. We buried those feathers 
deep. Alas, that monsieur, ^ in common with all the folk in 
Northern France, was so thorough in his cataloguing of his prop- 
erties. I don't blame him. He had dealt with Germans when 
they overran the territory. He had met with Belgians when they 
hastened forward. He had had experience of his own countrymen 
when they endeavored to drive back the enemy. He had billeted 
the Imperial British soldier. Now he was confronted with a 
soldier of whom he had no report, save only the name — Canadian. 
Monsieur had counted his chickens before they were perched. 

We had not yet had read or explained to us the laws and penal- 
ties attaching to such a crime while on active service. Of course, 
no one killed that chicken. No one ate it. No one knew any- 
thing about it. We were perfectly willing, if need be, to pay 
double price for the chicken rather than have such a term as 
"chicken-thief" levelled at us. We of the guard, however, pro- 
tested, but paid five francs each to smooth the matter over. 
This totalled about four dollars. 

The next morning the whole battalion was lined up before the 
colonel while the adjutant read aloud the law which we boys 
term the "riot act." This document informed us very clearly 
that if any soldier was found to have taken anything from the 
peasantry for his own use; if any man was found drunk on active 
service, or if he committed any other crime or offense which 
might be counted as minor to these two, the punishment for a 
1 Pronounced me-sjii; equivalent to English mister. 



PRIVATE PEAT 81 

first offense would be six months first field punishment. For any 
offense of a similar nature thereafter the man would be liable to 
court martial and death. 

While this paper was being read, I shook in my boots, to think 
that I had been — innocently or at least ignorantly — associated 
with what was probably the first crime of our battalion. 

We went back to billets a very subdued lot of soldiers. 

We passed another night in the same billets. Next morning 
at five thirty we were roused to make a forced march across coun- 
try of some twenty-two miles. This was the hardest march of 
the entire time I was at the front. . . . 

It was winter. There was heavy traffic over the roads. There 
were no road-builders, and precious little organization for the 
traffic. Part of the way the surface had been cobblestones; now 
it was broken flints. 

We started out gallantly enough with full packs, very full 
packs. Then, a few miles out, one would see out of the corner 
of his eye, a shirt sail quietly across the hedgerow; an extra pair 
of boots in the other direction; another shirt, a bundle of writing- 
paper; more shirts, more boots. Packs were lightening. Down 
to fifty pounds now; forty, thirty, twenty, ten . . . the road was 
getting worse. 

No one would give up. Half a dozen men stopped and slashed 
at their boots to get room for a pet corn or a burning bunion. 
But every man pegged ahead. This was the first forced march. 
We were on our way to the trenches. . . . We agonized, but per- 
severed. 

Armentieres was our objective. A fine city, this, and one which 
we might have enjoyed under happier circumstances. It was 
under fire, but not badly damaged, and consequently many thou- 
sands of the Imperial soldiers were "resting" there while back 
from the trenches. 

We were the First Canadians. We were expected, and the 
English Tommies determined to give us right royal welcome and 
a hearty hand-shake. We had a reputation to keep up, for in 



82 WAR READINGS 

England the Cockney Tommy and his brother "civvies" had 
named us the "Singing Can-ydians." 

But on the road to Armentieres . . . oh, ma foi! (my faith). 
There was no singing ... as we stumbled, bent double, lifting 
swollen feet, like Agag, treading on eggs through the streets of 
the city. 

Tommy Atkins to right of us; Tommy Atkins to left of us, 
cobblestones beneath us, we staggered and swayed. The English 
boys cheered and yelled a greeting. It was rousing, it was thrill- 
ing, it was a welcome that did our hearts good; but we could not 
rise to the occasion. 

Suddenly from out of the crowd of khaki figures there came a 
voice — that of a true son of the East End — a suburb of White- 
chapel was surely his happy home. 

"S'y> 'ere comes the Singin' Can-ydians. . . . 'Ere they 
come . . . 'ear their singin'!" 

Not a sound from our ranks. Silence. But it was too much. 
No one can offer a gibe to a man of the West without his getting 
it back. Far from down our column some one yelled: 

"Are we downhearted?" "No." We pealed back the answer 
raucously enough, and then on with the song: 

Are we Downhearted? NO, no, no. 
Are we downhearted? No, no, no. 
Troubles may come and troubles may go, 
But we keep smiling where'er we go. 
Are we downhearted? Are we downhearted? 
No, no, NO! 

"No, y're not down'earted, but yer look bally well broken- 
'earted," chanted our small Cockney comrade, with sarcasm ring- 
ing strong in every clipped tone of his voice. 



PRIVATE PEAT 83 



Soldier's Mail 



The authorities are just as careful about sending up a soldier's 
letters, his parcels, and small gifts from home as they are about 
the food and clothing supplies. They recognize that Tommy 
Atkins naturally and rightly wants to keep in touch with the 
home folks, and every effort is made to get communications up 
en time. But war is war, and there are days and even weeks 
when no letters reach the front line. Those are the days that try 
the mettle of the men. We do not tell our thoughts to one an- 
other. The soldier of to-day is rough of exterior, rough of speech, 
and rough of bearing, but underneath he has a heart of gold and a 
spirit of untold gentleness. 

Suddenly down the trench will pass the word that the officer 
and sergeant are coming with letters and parcels. . . . 

We crowd around the officer with shining eyes, like so many 
schoolboys. Parcels are handed out first, but we throw these 
aside to be opened later, and snatch for the letters. But luck is 
not always good to all of us, and possibly it will be old Bill who 
has to turn away empty-handed and alone. No letter. Are they 
all well, or — no letter. 

But Bill is not left alone very long. A pal will notice him, 
notice him before he himself has had more than a glimpse of the 
heading of his own precious letter, and going over to Bill, will 
slap him a hearty blow on the shoulder and say : " Say, Bill, old 
boy, I've got a letter. Listen to this — " And then, no matter 
how sacred the letter may be, he will read it aloud before he had 
a chance to glance at it himself. If it is from the girl, old Bill will 
be laughing before it is finished — girls write such amusing stuff; 
but, no matter whom it is from, it is all the same. It is a pleasure 
shared, and Bill forgets his trouble in the happiness of another. 

We had only been about ten weeks in France when we were 
moved out of the trenches and placed in Ypres in billets. Some 
of us were actually billeted in the city itself, and others of us had 
a domicile in the environs. 



84 WAR READINGS 

Ypres 

Ypres,^ or Wipers, as Tommy Atkins called it, was then con- 
sidered a "hot" spot. The Germans say no one ever comes back 
from Ypres without a hole in him. . . . 

At this time Ypres was not yet destroyed by the enemy. I have 
seen many cities of the world, I have seen the beauties of West- 
minster Abbey, the Law Courts; I have seen the tropical wonders 
of the West Indies; I have seen the marvels of the Canadian 
Rockies, but I have never seen greater beauty of architecture and 
form than in the city of Ypres. There was the Cloth Hall, la Salle 
des Draperies, with its massive pillars, its delicate traceries, its 
Gothic windows, and its air of age-long, gray-toned serenity. 

There was Ypres Cathedral ! A place of silence that breathed 
of heaven itself. There was its superb bell-tower, and its peal 
of silver-tongued chimes. There were wonderful Old World 
houses, quaint steps and turns and alleys. It was a city of delight, 
a city that charmed and awed by its impressive grandeur. 

Now the city was massed with refugees from the ravaged parts 
of Belgium. In peace-times possibly the population would have 
numbered thirty-five to forty thousand, at this time it seemed 
that sixty thousand souls were crowded into the city limits. 
Every house, every estaminet,'^ every barn, every stable was filled 
to its capacity with folk who had fled in despair before the cloven 
hoof of the advancing Hun. . . . 

One day I walked out from Ypres a few miles. I came to the 
village of Vlamentinge. I went into an estaminet and called 
for some refreshment. From among the crowd of soldiers gath- 
ered there a civilian Belgian made his way over to me. He was 
crippled or he would not have been in civilian clothes. 

"Hello, old boy !" he said to me in perfect English. "How are 
you?" 

I replied, but must have looked my astonishment at his knowl- 
edge of my language, for he went on to explain. 

1 Pronounced, e-pr. ^ Coflfee-house. 



PRIVATE PEAT 85 

"I got over from the States just the week war broke out. I 
worked in North Dakota, and had saved up and planned to 
come over and marry my sweetheart, who waited in Brussels for 
me. I have not seen her. She must be lost in the passing of the 
enemy. I have gathered a very little money, enough to start on 
the small farm which is my inheritance. Come and see it — come 
and have dinner with me." 

I accepted his invitation, and we walked over together. The 
Belgian spoke all the way of his fine property and good farm. 
All the while there was a twinkle in his eye, and at last I asked him 
what size was his great farm. 

"Ten acres," said he, and laughed at my amazement at so small 
a holding. 

We reached the house, which proved to be a three-roomed 
shack. In a little, dinner was served and we went in to sit down. 
Not only the owner and myself, but fifteen others sat down to a 
meal of weak soup and war bread. The other guests at the table 
were fourteen old women and one young girl. They sat in a steady, 
brooding silence. I asked the Belgian if they understood English. 
They did not, and so I questioned him. 

"Very big family, this you've got," I remarked. I knew who 
they were, but just wanted to draw him out. 

"Oh, they're not my family." 

"Only visitors?" I queried. 

"Darned good visitors," said he, "they've been here since the 
second week of August, 1914." 

"Refugees," I commented. 

"Yes, refugees, not one with a home. Not one who has not 
lost her husband, her son, or her grandson. Not one who has 
not lost every bit of small property, but her clothes as well. You 
think that I am doing something to help ? Well, that is not much. 
I'm lucky with the few I have. There's my old neighbor over 
yonder on the hill. He owns five acres and has a two-roomed 
shack and he keeps eleven." 

"And how long do you expect them to stay?" 



86 WAR READINGS 

"Why, laddie," said he. "Stay— how should I know? I 
was talking to an officer the other day and he told me he believed 
the first ten years of this war would be the worst. They are free 
and welcome to stay all that time, and longer if need be. They 
are my people. They are Belgians. We have not much. My 
savings are going rapidly, but we have set a few potatoes" — he 
waved his hand over to where four of the old women were hoeing 
the ground — "we get bread and a little soup; we have enough 
to wear for now. We shall manage." 

That is only one instance in my own personal experience. Every 
place was the same. The people who could sheltered those that 
had lost all. It was a case of share and share alike. If one man 
had a crust and his neighbor none, why then each had half a crust 
without questions. 

Ypres had been destroyed in seven hours, after a continuous 
bombardment from one thousand German guns. It was a city 
of the dead. The military authorities of the Allies told the civil- 
ians they must leave. They had to go, there was no alternative. 
The liberation they had hoped for was in sight, but their road to 
it was of a roughness unspeakable. 

There was the grandfather in that procession, and the grand- 
mother; sometimes she was a crippled old body who could not 
walk; sometimes she was wheeled in a barrow surrounded by a 
few bundles of household treasure. Sometimes a British wagon 
would pass, piled high with old women and sick, to whom the 
soldiers were giving a lift on their way. 

There was the mother in that procession. Sometimes she 
would have a basket with a few broken pieces of food. There was 
a young child, the baby hardly able to toddle and clinging to the 
mother's skirts. There was the young brother, the little fellow, 
whimpering a little perhaps at the noise and confusion and terror 
which his tiny brain could not grasp. There was the baby, the 
baby which used to be plump and smiling and round and pinky 
white, now held convulsively by the mother to her breast, its 
little form thin and worn because of lack of nourishment. 



PRIVATE PEAT 87 

There was no means of feeding these thousands of helpless ones. 
Their only means of sustenance was from the charity of the British 
and French soldiers, who shared rations with them. 

Canadians — Canadians — ^That's All ! 

The night of April twenty-second was probably the most 
momentous time of the six days and nights of fighting. Then the 
Germans concentrated on the Yser Canal, over which there was 
but one bridge, a murderous barrage fire which would have effec- 
tively hindered the bringing up of reinforcements or guns, even 
had we had any in reserve. 

During the early stages of the battle, the enemy had succeeded 
to considerable degree in turning the Canadian left wing. There 
was a large open gap at this point, where the French Colonial 
troops had stood until the gas came over. Toward this sector 
the Germans rushed rank after rank of infantry, backed by guns 
and heavy artillery. To the far distant left were our British com- 
rades. They were completely blocked by the German advance. 
They were like rats in a trap and could not move. 

At the start of the battle, the Canadian lines ran from the vil- 
lage of Langemarcke over to St. Julien, a distance of approximately 
three to four miles. From St. Julien to the sector where the Im- 
perial British had joined the Turcos^ was a distance of probably 
two miles. 

These two miles had to be covered and covered quickly. We 
had to save the British extreme right wing, and we had to close 
the gap. There was no question about it. It was our job. On 
the night of April twenty-second we commenced to put this into 
effect. We were still holding our original position with the hand- 
ful of men who were in reserves, all of whom had been included in 
the original grand total of twelve thousand. We had to spread 
out across the gap of two miles and link up the British right wing. 

Doing this was no easy task. Our company was out first and 
1 Troops from French North Africa. 



88 WAR READINGS 

we were told to get into field-skirmishing order. We lined up 
in the pitchy darkness at five paces apart, but no sooner had we 
reached this than a whispered order passed from man to man: 
"Another pace, lads, just another pace." 

This order came again and yet again. Before we were through 
and ready for the command to advance, we were at least twice 
five paces each man from his nearest comrade. 

Then it was that our captain told us bluntly that we were ob- 
viously outnumbered by the Germans, ten to one. Then he told 
us that, practically speaking, we had scarcely the ghost of a chance, 
but that a bluff might succeed. He told us to " swing the lid over 
them." This we did by yelling, hooting, shouting, clamoring, un- 
til it seemed, and the enemy believed, that we were ten to their 
one. 

The ruse succeeded. At daybreak, when we rested, we found 
that we had driven the enemy back almost to his original posi- 
tion. All night long we had been fighting with our backs to our 
comrades who were in the front trenches. The enemy had got 
behind us and we had had to face about in what served for trenches. 
By dawn we had him back again in his original position, and we 
were facing in the old direction. By dawn we had almost, though 
not quite, forced a junction with the British right. 

The night of April twenty-second is one that I can never for- 
get. It was frightful, yes. Yet there was a grandeur in the ap- 
palling intensity of living, in the appalling intensity of death as 
it surrounded us. 

The German shells rose and burst behind us. They made the 
Yser Canal a stream of molten glory. Shells fell in the city, 
and split the darkness of the heavens in the early night hours. 
Later the moon rose in a splendor of spring-time. Straight be- 
hind the tower of the great cathedral it rose and shone down on 
a bloody earth. 

Suddenly the grand old Cloth Hall burst into flames. The 
spikes of fire rose and fell and rose again. Showers of sparks 
went upward. A pall of smoke would form and cloud the moon. 




Published by the Parliamentary Recruiting Committee, London. 



THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART 89 

waver, break, and pass. There was the mutter and rumble and 
roar of great guns. . . . 

It was glorious. It was terrible. It was inspiring. Through 
an inferno of destruction and death, ... we lived because we 
must. 

Perhaps our greatest reward came when on April twenty-sixth 
the English troops reached us. We had been completely cut off 
by the enemy barrage from all communication with other sectors 
of the line. Still, through the wounded gone back, word of our 
stand had drifted out. The English boys fought and force- 
marched and fought again their terrible way through the bar- 
rage to our aid. And when they arrived, weary and worn and 
torn, cutting their bloody way to us, they cheered themselves 
hoarse; cheered as they marched along, cheered and gripped our 
hands as they got within touch with us. Yell after yell went up- 
ward, and stirring words woke the echoes. The boys of the Old 
Country paid their greatest tribute to us of the New as they 
cried : 

"Canadians — Canadians — that's all I" 



THOMAS OF THE LIGHT HEART ^ 

OWEN SEAMAN 

Facing the guns, he jokes as well 

As any Judge upon the Bench; 
Between the crash of shell and shell 

His laughter rings along the trench; 
He seems immensely tickled by a 
Projectile which he calls a "Black Maria." 

He whistles down the day-long road. 
And, when the chilly shadows fall 
And heavier hangs the weary load, 

» From "War Time," copyright, 1915, by Constable & Co. Used by permission. 



90 WAR READINGS 

Is he downhearted? Not at all. 
*Tis then he takes a light and airy 
View of the tedious route to Tipperary. 

His songs are not exactly hymns; 

He never learned them in the choir; 
And yet they brace his dragging limbs 

Although they miss the sacred fire; 
Although his choice and cherished gems 
Do not include "The Watch upon the Thames." 

He takes to fighting as a game; 

He does no talking, through his hat. 
Of holy missions; all the same 

He has his faith — be sure of that; 
He'll not disgrace his sporting breed, 
Nor play what isn't cricket. There's his creed. 

October, 1914. 

THE BELOVED CAPTAIN ^ 

DONALD HANKEY 

The writer of this selection was an officer in the British army. He 
went to the front in May, 1915, and wrote the articles making up the book, 
"A Student in Arms," after he had been wounded and had returned 
home. In May, 1916, he returned to the front and was killed in action 
the following October. He was last seen alive rallying his men, who had 
wavered for a moment under the heavy machine-gun and rifle fire. He 
carried the waverers along with him, and was found that night close to 
the trench, the winning of which had cost him his life. 

He came in the early days, when we were still at recruit drills 
under the hot September sun. Tall, erect, smiling: so we first 
saw him, and so he remained to the end. At the start he knew 
as little of soldiering as we did. He used to watch us being drilled 
by the sergeant; but his manner of watching was peculiarly his 

•From "A Student in Arms," copyright, 1917, by E. P. Dutton & Co. Used 
by permission. 



THE BELOVED CAPTAIN 91 

own. He never looked bored. He was learning just as much 
as we were, in fact more. He was learning his job, and from the 
first he saw that his job was more than to give the correct orders. 
His job was to lead us. So he watched, and noted many things, 
and never found the time hang heavy on his hands. He watched 
our evolutions so as to learn the correct orders; he watched for the 
right manner of command, the manner which secured the most 
prompt response to an order; and he watched every one of us for 
our individual characteristics. We were his men. Already he 
took an almost paternal interest in us. He noted the men who 
tried hard, but were naturally slow and awkward. He distin- 
guished them from those who were inattentive and bored. He 
marked down the keen and efficient among us. Most of all, he 
studied those who were subject to moods, who were sulky one 
day and willing the next. These were the ones who were to turn 
the scale. If only he could get these on his side, the battle would 
be won. 

For a few days he just watched. Then he started work. He 
picked out some of the most awkward ones, and, accompanied 
by a corporal, marched them away by themselves. Ingenuously 
he explained that he did not know much himself yet; but he 
thought that they might get on better if they drilled by them- 
selves a bit, and that if he helped them, and they helped him, 
they would soon learn. His confidence was infectious. He looked 
at them, and they looked at him, and the men pulled themselves 
together and determined to do their best. Their best surprised 
themselves. His patience was inexhaustible. His simplicity 
could not fail to be understood. His keenness and optimism car- 
ried all with them. Very soon the awkward squad found them- 
selves awkward no longer; and soon after that they ceased to be 
a squad, and went back to the platoon. 

Then he started to drill the platoon, with the sergeant standing 
by to point out his mistakes. Of course, he made mistakes, and 
when that happened he never minded admitting it. He would 
explain what mistakes he had made, and try again. The result 



92 WAR READINGS 

was that we began to take almost as much interest and pride in 
his progress as he did in ours. We were his men, and he was our 
leader. We felt that he was a credit to us, and we resolved to be 
a credit to him. There was a bond of mutual confidence and affec- 
tion between us, which grew stronger and stronger as the months 
passed. He had a smile for almost every one; but we thought 
that he had a different smile for us. We looked for it, and were 
never disappointed. On parade, as long as we were trying, his 
smile encouraged us. Off parade, if we passed him and saluted, 
his eyes looked straight into our own, and his smile greeted us. It 
was a wonderful thing, that smile of his. It was something worth 
living for, and worth working for. It bucked one up when one 
was bored or tired. It seemed to make one look at things from a 
different point of view, a finer point of view, his point of view. 
There was nothing feeble or weak about it. It was not monoto- 
nous like the smile of "Sunny Jim." It meant something. It 
meant that we were his men, and that he was proud of us, and 
sure that we were going to do jolly well — better than any of the 
other platoons. And it made us determine that we would. When 
we failed him, when he was disappointed in us, he did not smile. 
He did not rage or curse. He just looked disappointed, and that 
made us feel far more savage with ourselves than any amount of 
swearing would have done. He made us feel that we were not 
playing the game by him. It was not what he said. He was 
never very good at talking. It was just how he looked. And 
his look of displeasure and disappointment was a thing that v/e 
would do anything to avoid. The fact was that he had won his 
way into our affections. We loved him. And there isn't anything 
stronger than love, when all's said and done. 

He was good to look on. He was big and tall, and held him- 
self upright. His eyes looked his own height. He moved with 
the grace of an athlete. His skin was tanned by a wholesome 
outdoor life, and his eyes were clear and wide open. Physically 
he was a prince among men. We used to notice, as we marched 
along the road and passed other officers, that they always looked 



THE BELOVED CAPTAIN 93 

pleased to see him. They greeted him with a cordiahty which 
was reserved for him. Even the general seemed to have singled 
him out, and east an eye of special approval upon him. Some- 
how, gentle though he was, he was never familiar. He had a 
kind of innate nobility which marked him out as above us. He 
was not democratic. He was rather the justification for aris- 
tocracy. We all knew instinctively that he was our superior — 
a man of finer temper than ourselves, a " toff" in his own right. I 
suppose that that was why he could be so humble without loss of 
dignity. For he was humble, too, if that is the right word, and 
I think it is. No trouble of ours was too small for him to attend 
to. When we started route marches, for instance, and our feet 
were blistered and sore, as they often were at first, you would 
have thought that they were his own feet from the trouble he took. 
Of course, after the march there was always an inspection of feet. 
That is the routine. But with him it was no mere routine. He 
came into our rooms, and, if any one had a sore foot, he would 
kneel down on the floor and look at it as carefully as if he had been 
a doctor. Then he would prescribe, and the remedies were ready 
at hand, being borne by the sergeant. If a blister had to be 
lanced he would very likely lance it himself there and then, so as 
to make sure that it was done with a clean needle and that no dirt 
was allowed to get in. There was no affectation about this, no 
striving after effect. It was simply that he felt that our feet were 
pretty important, and that he knew that we were pretty careless. 
So he thought it best at the start to see to the matter himself. 
Nevertheless, there was in our eyes something almost religious 
about this care for our feet. It seemed to have a touch of the 
Christ about it, and we loved and honored him the more. 

We knew that we should lose him. For one thing, we knew that 
he would be promoted. It was our great hope that some day he 
would command the company. Also we knew that he would be 
killed. He was so amazingly unself-conscious. For that reason 
we knew that he would be absolutely fearless. He would be so 
keen on the job in hand, and so anxious for his men, that he would 



94 WAR READINGS 

forget about his own danger. So it proved. He was a captain 
when we went out to the front. Whenever there was a tiresome 
job to be done, he was there in charge. If ever there were a mo- 
ment of danger, he was on the spot. If there were any particular 
part of the hne where the shells were falling faster or the bombs 
dropping more thickly than in other parts, he was in it. It was 
not that he was conceited and imagined himself indispensable. 
It was just that he was so keen that the men should do their best, 
and act worthily of the regiment. He knew that fellows hated 
turning out at night for fatigue, when they were in a "rest camp." 
He knew how tiresome the long march there and back and the 
digging in the dark for an unknown purpose were. He knew 
that fellows would be inclined to grouse and shirk, so he thought 
that it was up to him to go and show them that he thought it was 
a job worth doing. And the fact that he was there put a new 
complexion on the matter altogether. No one would shirk if he 
were there. No one would grumble so much, either. What was 
good enough for him was good enough for us. If it were not too 
much trouble for him to turn out, it was not too much trouble for 
us. He knew, too, how trying to the nerves it is to sit in a trench 
and be shelled. He knew what a temptation there is to move a 
bit farther down the trench and herd together in a bunch at what 
seems the safest end. He knew, too, the folly of it, and that it 
was not the thing to do — not done in the best regiments. So, 
he went along to see that it did not happen, to see that the men 
stuck to their posts, and conquered their nerves. And as soon 
as we saw him, we forgot our own anxiety. It was: "Move a bit 
farther down, sir. We are all right here; but don't you go expos- 
ing of yourself." We didn't matter. We knew it then. We 
were just the rank and file, bound to take risks. The company 
would get along all right without us. But the captain, how was 
the company to get on without him? To see him was to catch 
his point of view, to forget our personal anxieties, and only to 
think of the company, and the regiment, and honor. 

There was not one of us but would gladly have died for him. 



A LETTER FROM THE FRONT 95 

We longed for the chance to show him that. We weren't heroes. 
We never dreamed about the V. C. But to save the eaptain we 
would have earned it ten times over, and never have cared a but- 
ton whether we got it or not. We never got the chance, worse 
luck. It was all the other way. We were holding some trenches 
which were about as unhealthy as trenches could be. The Boches 
were only a few yards away, and were well supplied with trench 
mortars. We hadn't got any at that time. Bombs and air-tor- 
pedoes were dropping round us all day. Of course, the captain 
was there. It seemed as if he could not keep away. A torpedo 
fell into the trench, and buried some of our chaps. The fellows 
next to them ran to dig them out. Of course, he was one of 
the first. Then came another torpedo in the same place. That 
was the end. 

But he lives. Somehow he lives. And we who knew him 
do not forget. We feel his eyes on us. We still work for that 
wonderful smile of his. There are not many of the old lot left 
now, but I think that those who went West have seen him. When 
they got to the other side I think they were met. Some one said : 
"Well done, good and faithful servant." And as they knelt be- 
fore that gracious pierced Figure, I reckon they saw near by the 
captain's smile. Anyway, in that faith let me die, if death should 
come my way; and so, I think, shall I die content. 



A LETTER FROM THE FRONT i 

HENRY NEWBOLT 

I was out early to-day, spying about 

From the top of a haystack — such a lovely morning- 

And when I mounted again to canter back 

I saw across a field in the broad sunlight 

A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along 

1 Used by special permission of the author. 



96 . WAR READINGS 

With a rook-rifle held at the ready, and — would you believe 

It?— 
A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him. 
So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster. 
And shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, 
And wished him "Good sport!" — and then I remembered 
My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing: 
And I rode nearer, and added, "I can only suppose 
You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief's order 
Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies 
By hunting and shooting." 

But he stood and saluted 
And said earnestly, "I beg your pardon. Sir 
I was only going out to shoot a sparrow 
To feed my cat with." 

So there was the whole picture. 
The lovely early morning, the occasional shell 
Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape, — 
Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting. 
And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement. 
I may be wrong, and I may have told it badly, 
But it struck me as being extremely ludicrous. 



IN FLANDERS FIELDS 

JOHN McRAE 

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 
Between the crosses, row on row. 

That mark our place, and in the sky, 
The larks, still bravely singing, fly, 
Scarce heard amid the guns below. 

We are the dead; short days ago 
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow. 



LONDON CHILDREN IN THE AIR RAID 97 

Loved and were loved, and now we lie 
In Flanders fields. 

Take up our quarrel with the foe ! 
To you from failing hands we throw 

The torch; be yours to hold it high! 

If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow 

In Flanders fields. 



LONDON CHILDREN IN THE AIR RAID OF 
JUNE 13, 19171 

OLIVE HOPE CONSTANCE 

I suppose that many American children on hearing of this terri- 
ble raid have wondered how the English children felt and be- 
haved during that time of death and ruin. I was in the zone of 
danger at the time, teaching in a school not far from the place 
where some of the bombs fell, and thought it might interest the 
readers of St. Nicholas to have some account of the event. 

It was such a hot June day ! The sky glowed misty with the 
heat, and teachers and children were hot sorry to have, as they 
thought, only a quarter of an hour's more work before closing 
for the morning. Suddenly a buzzing sound was heard above, 
and a quick order was given to the surprised teachers to move 
the children away from the windows. But hardly had the com- 
mand been given when there was a terrific, crashing thud, the 
building shook, and sounds of smashing glass and falling brick- 
work were heard. With a cry, each class rose in a body and bolted 
straight for the teacher, eyes and mouths wide open, faces pale, 
and hands outstretched— but no one running for the door; and in 
a few moments all were ranged quietly along the inner wall, there 
was not another sound of fear, and the order to jump up and 
1 Prom St. Nicholas, copyright, 1917, by The Century Co. Used by permission. 



98 WAR READINGS 

down was obeyed immediately. This cheered up the children 
tremendously, for the familiar sound of their own feet drowned 
the noise still going on outside. It was learned afterward that a 
shell passed over the school very near the roof; shrapnel was cer- 
tainly falling all around, and within, gas-globes and windows had 
been smashed. The next bomb might fall on them — this was 
fully realized as they gazed anxiously upward — yet up and down 
they bobbed, the bigger ones holding hands with tiny mites of 
three and four years old, and even laughing at them now that the 
first fright and surprise were over. All kept pretty near their 
own teachers, but there was no more pressing against skirts or 
hiding of faces. 

"Now let us sing," suggested a teacher. "Rule Britannia," 
suggested some one; and immediately a boy of seven, one of the 
most nervous, highly strung children in the school, started off in a 
clear, firm voice, and every one joined in: 

"Rule Britannia ! Britannia rules the waves. 
Britons never, never, never shall be slaves!" 

The ring of courage in that "never, never, never" will remain in 
the memories of those who heard it. 

This is what happened in one school, and it is a very fair type 
of what occurred throughout the bombed part of London. Some 
schools had time to carry out what is known as "raid drill," and 
were quickly and quietly moved away from the windows or into 
the lower parts of high buildings, there being no rush, however, 
in these cases. One headmaster started the singing before the 
explosions began, and the children sang song after song, just as 
if it were an "Empire Day," keeping it up till all danger was past. 
Very few children cried to go home, though I have heard of some 
who wished to run to smaller sisters and brothers, and one girl 
begged to be allowed to go to her mother, who was very ill. 

"Teacher, are you frightened?" asked a small boy of five. 
His teacher could not tell a lie — she was frightened — so she 
replied: "Well, do I look frightened, Willie!" "No, teacher, 



LONDON CHILDREN IN THE AIR RAID 99 

no ! " half a dozen voices chorused, and the faces round her visibly 
brightened ; one could see that these little mites were holding them- 
selves together through sheer pride and courage — they were not 
going to be cowards. "Never mind, teacher," another older 
boy was saying at the same time; "God is taking care of us — He 
is watching all the time, isn't He?" The teachers were, indeed, 
thanking God from the bottom of their hearts that the raid had 
not come ten minutes later, for then these children would have 
been on their way home, and many would never have returned. 

When at last the report came, "All is over," the children were 
told to go quietly and quickly home. They did not rush out 
into the playground with a shout, as boys and girls do generally 
the world over, but trailed out rather soberly. Glad they were 
to see their mothers waiting for them at the gates. Many of them 
had hurried away from terrifying scenes at home. Tales were 
told later of families in danger — one child spoke of a baby sister 
blown down-stairs ; another of a wee baby a few months old, whose 
cot was covered with splinters of glass; others of injuries and 
death among friends and relations. Some boys picked up wicked- 
looking lumps of shrapnel from the playground, handing them to 
their teachers; and many, as they went home, had to pass am- 
bulances carrying burdens from streets near by to the nearest 
hospital. Yet in the afternoon many of the children were back 
at school, going on with their lessons. Few people would have 
guessed what they had been through during the last few hours. 

Some people have said that the children did not realize their 
danger, or even know what was happening. But London children 
have often experienced Zeppelin raids at night, and it has fallen to 
their lot to hear rumors and descriptions of such things ever since 
the war began. So, although they felt the shock of explosions 
around and beneath them, although they looked up into the sky 
and waited for the next, yet it was a singing London which greeted 
the enemy in the air. Thousands of children were cheering them- 
selves and each other in song. If their fathers and brothers in 
the trenches could have heard, their hearts would surely have 



100 WAR READINGS 

swelled with pride at the spirit of their lads and lasses. Among 
the mothers and all civilians at home there has been a stiffening 
of attitude and a feeling quite opposite to that which the enemy 
evidently expected to inspire. 



RETREAT i 

WILFRID WILSON GIBSON 

Broken, bewildered by the long retreat 

Across the stifling leagues of southern plain. 
Across the scorching leagues of trampled grain. 

Half-stunned, half-blinded, by the trudge of feet 

And dusty smother of the August heat. 
He dreamt of flowers in an English lane. 
Of hedgerow flowers glistening after rain — 

All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet. 

All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet — 
The innocent names kept up a cool refrain — 

All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet. 
Chiming and tinkling in his aching brain. 
Until he babbled like a child again — 

"All-heal and willow-herb and meadow-sweet." 



LINES WRITTEN IN SURREY, 1917 2 

GEORGE HERBERT CLARKE 

A sudden swirl of song in the bright sky — 
The little lark adoring his lord the sun; 
Across the corn the lazy ripples run; 

Under the eaves, conferring drowsily, 

1 Copyright by The Macmillan Co. Used by permission. 

2 From The Westminster Gazette, copyright, 1917. Used by permission. 




Published by the Parliamentary Recruiting Committee , London. 



THE HOUSE AT ZAGORA 101 

Doves droop or amble; the agile waterfly 

Wrinkles the pool; and flowers, gay and dun. 
Rose, bluebell, rhododendron, one by one, 

The buccaneering bees prove busily. 

Ah, who may trace this tranquil loveliness 
In verse felicitous? — no measure tells; 

But gazing on her bosom we can guess 

Why men strike hard for England in red hells. 

Falling on dreams, 'mid Death's extreme caress, 
Of English daisies dancing in English dells. 



THE HOUSE AT ZAGORA ^ 

WILL IRWIN 

The two stories, "The House at Zagora " and "With the Alpini," are 
taken from a book that describes the soldiers of France and Italy, and 
fighting along these fronts. They are a part of the personal observations 
and experiences of a well-known war correspondent. At the time of 
his visit the Italians and Austrians were fighting on the very summits of 
the Alps. The places mentioned here are within the Carnic Alps that 
separate Austrian and Italian territory in the northeast of Italy. 

The foot-hills of the Alps would be called a little more than foot- 
hills in the Rocky Mountains, but real mountains in Scotland or 
our Atlantic States. As we strode on, trotting at intervals to 
keep pace with the long, mountain-trained legs of our lieutenant, 
they began to come one by one out of the dawn. In conformation, 
it occurred to me, they much resembled the American Catskills 
or perhaps the mountains of Scotland, only that they were more 
abrupt. The day broke in beauty-clear skies, April and the Alps. 
It is not my purpose, however, to write here of scenery. And, 
indeed, during the last part of our passage to the point where 
the communication-trenches opened, I was indifferent to beauty. 

1 From "The Latin at War," copyright, 1917, by D. Appleton & Co. Used by 
nermission. 



102 WAR READINGS 

When you go down a path at a stooping run, dodging from side 
to side in order to dazzle a sniper, it is hard to remember that 
you are dodging through incomparable forest. 

This is why we had come: 

The Isonzo, near by, runs into a gorge. On both sides rise moun- 
tains with occasional cliffs. The Italians, advancing here as else- 
where toward the River of Promise, had swept the Austrians down 
the slope of the right bank and across the Isonzo. In face of 
deadly fire, they had themselves crossed. They had struggled 
on until they forced the enemy up near to the summit on the left 
bank. At the hamlet of Zagora the lines locked, and affairs came 
to a standstill. And in Zagora stood the strangest house in all 
Europe, where the two armies "had contact." This situation 
had existed since November. The Austrians were in the dining- 
room, the Italians in the kitchen. The Austrians were in mother's 
room, the Italians in the children's. 

And that mountainside on the conquered left bank, up which 
we were to climb — it was a litter, a mess, of military works. I say 
now that nothing has so exemplified to me the mighty labor of 
this war as that one hillside. It was as though one had started 
to put in a city, and had dug the cellars, the water-mains, the street 
gradings, and the sewers all at once. And this labor had but one 
object — to feed, to arm, to protect a few hundred men doing the 
real fighting at the actual front. Everywhere that morning we 
met men digging and delving, passing timber, setting blocks, saw- 
ing wood, carrying boxes slung between poles, Chinese fashion. 
All proved the peril of the work by wearing steel trench-helmets. 

Now there comes in these positions a certain hour when you can 
count with fair certainty on a lull. The night has been hot and 
anxious, bringing one kind of deadly work. There will be work 
of another kind later in the day; but in this hour or so the armies, 
by a tacit truce — formal truces are unknown to this war — eat, 
clean guns, "tidy up" the trenches, and rest. One can never 
count absolutely on this truce, however; hence our nervousness 
as we came out, during one stage of our passage, into full view and 



THE HOUSE AT ZAGORA 103 

rifle-range of the Austrians. An untoward incident may break it 
at any moment. We had timed our visit for this interval of com- 
parative safety. 

Every one thinks of modern war as a noisy business. It is, for 
the most part. But I had never before thought much of the cau- 
tious silences which come between action and action. That was 
the first thing which struck me as I came out on this hillside of 
workmen whose master is death. Men, men, men, a city of men 
dozing behind rocks or sand-bags, carrying timbers, cleaning out 
ditches, passing with careful, stealthy feet — and none spoke a 
word. A skylark was soaring on his fluttering, perpendicular 
flight, singing his heart out as he soared. A bird-chorus answered 
him from the herbage of the hillside. Theirs seemed the only 
sound; for even the distant guns were still. 

We picked our way in and out of the tangled walls, trenches, 
barricades, to a dugout, set deep in the hill and furnished with a 
door and a window. Before it lay a little garden-plot fenced neatly 
with bent willow-branches, where new-sown grass was springing. 
Inside was hot coffee and a warm welcome. As we ate our cheese 
and our good, brown-yellow war bread, a young lieutenant entered. 
He had come up from headquarters that morning bringing the 
mail— letters from wives, sweethearts, and daughters. The officers 
excused themselves and ripped through their letters with eager 
eyes. The Commander opened a fat packet. 

" Look !" he said, snapping its contents across the table. It was 
sweet-pea seed for his little garden! 

But time pressed; and, since it must be done, it were best to 
do it while the silence held. So now we pushed forward. The 
Commander, guiding us personally, stopped to ask a question 
about the route; and, from the cook shed, but softly: 

"Hello! I speak English." 

He was chef of the officers' mess; but he was also a cook at the 
Plaza, in New York ! Ruff o was his name ; a sprightly little 
Italian boy, with a joke for everything. "The Hudson," he said, 
pointing to the blue Isonzo; and "The Palisades!" Also, he re- 



104 WAR READINGS 

marked that the baseball season was opening; and then, I thought, 
there was pathos in his eyes. 

"And now," said the Lieutenant, "our orders are to walk very 
gently and to whisper." 

Do not think of this as an ordinary hill, this height which the 
Italians have won yard by yard. It was so steep in its natural 
condition that a man could not walk straight up, but must follow 
winding paths. Now, there were crude stairways everywhere. 
Before us lay the wreckage of the hamlet and of that strange 
three-story house. Its roof was gone, and much of its upper 
story. The buildings that once stood about it were down to the 
foundations; but the lower story remained, and most of the 
second. We were approaching what had been the kitchen, I 
suppose — one of those half-cellar rooms which characterize hill- 
side houses. Behind it was a kind of back-door yard. Every- 
thing was black with old smoke of battle and of conflagration, or 
gray with the heavy dust of powdered rocks. 

I may not describe it minutely, although I remember it as I 
remember my own flat in New York. At last, I felt, I was clear 
beyond the world of humanly pleasant things and wholly in the 
world of war; for everywhere else there had been those little 
human touches like the latticed lawn before the dugout. But 
here — only rifles, boxes of grenades, empty cartridge-cases, clips 
tramped into the dust, shell-holes, newly made graves, crude, 
battered works of war. And everywhere silence, so that the spring 
bird-songs came out sharply. Once the Lieutenant opened a 
canvas curtain. We looked in. A handsome little Italian boy 
grinned at us genially from over a pot of coffee boiling on a spirit- 
lamp. We entered that cellar kitchen. I laid my hand on the 
wall. A foot away, in the coal-cellar, was the enemy! Had I 
waited long in that silence I might have heard him stirring. 

We were preparing to make our adieux, exchange cards and get 
away, when the great whistle of a great shell sounded overhead. 
I cannot describe that sound, though once heard it is never for- 
gotten. It has been compared to the rush of a fast express-train, 



THE HOUSE AT ZAGORA 105 

passing close; but it has a sharper, more crackhng quaUty. And 
near the crest of a mountain on the other side of the river rose a 
tremendous puff. A few seconds afterward, the sound of the ex- 
plosion followed. ... 

The Commander viewed the horizon with his glasses, took a long 
look to the rear, and turned to us. 

"Gentlemen," he said in French, "I regret for your sake to tell 
you that you cannot go now. It is not safe. I must beg the honor 
of your company to luncheon." 

We accepted with a grace which I for one did not feel. It is 
not pleasant for a civilian to know that he is bottled up indefinitely' 
on a hillside at no point immune from violent death. In danger, I 
have observed, one is always happiest when he is going away. 
As I sat on a bench before the dugout, watching the shells burst 
on the mountain beyond and the embankment below, listening to 
the slamming noise of the grenades, I felt a hollow in the pit of my 
stomach and a rusty-iron taste in my mouth. The emotion in- 
dicated by these symptoms would flash out; and, as the shells 
whistled and broke more and more heavily on hill or bank, interest 
in the thing as a spectacle would flash in. 

The Aeroplane Raid 

It was market-day, and about ten of a very fair spring morning, 
when the whistle blew the "Alerte" — a hostile aeroplane was 
coming. Two seconds before the whistle began, the market- 
place was all color, business and normal excitement. Peasant 
women with thick waists, powerful hands, and heavy yet vivacious 
faces bargained and flirted and gesticulated with soldiers and agents 
of the regimental messes. Women of the buying class, their social 
position proclaimed by the fact that they wore hats and gloves, 
strolled from booth to booth, gravely considering radishes, cauli- 
flowers, lettuce, or early cabbage, and then bursting into explosive 
Latin gestures when the bargain was found. It was all life, vivac- 
ity, and sociability. Two seconds after the whistle began, the 



106 WAR READINGS 

whole market was scattering, like chickens from the shadow of a 
hawk, to doorways and arcades. A few civilian stragglers, braver 
than the rest, tried to stand by their booths. The military police 
shoved them back under cover. A shopkeeper behind the arch 
where I stood rushed out in a sudden panic, gathered up his family 
and a few odd women, thrust and pulled and carried them inside 
his shop, and began to put up the iron shutters. A minute later, 
his panic going as fast as it came, he opened the shutters and let 
out his flock. While the people arranged themselves according to 
their personal courage — the braver on the edge of the sidewalk 
where they might see, the more timid in the doorways where they 
could be safe from shrapnel — there was babble and confusion. 
Then the noise of tongues died out; except for the wail of the 
whistles and the boom of church-bells joining in the warning, 
there was unearthly silence. So we waited. 

Through the whistle and the bells there pierced a series of 
sounds, distant but definite — a cannon-shot, another and another. 
A chorus of cannon followed, the explosions increasing in fre- 
quency and intensity. Still, no one spoke; men and women gazed 
into the quarter-sphere of sky before us, intent and pale. No one 
moved, either, except the military police; they ran from point to 
point, shoving back eddies of the crowd which stood in danger 
of our own shrapnel, if the firing came our way. Now, the bells 
and the whistles stopped; we waited; the guns rolled like drums. 

And now it came into sight — an aeroplane travelling like the 
wind, growing from a speck to a tangible thing. Usually the sun 
catches the wings of an aeroplane, so that it shines and flashes 
like a minnow in the shallows. Somehow, there was no such effect 
this time; it looked with its deep, flat, gray, war-paint, like a 
sinister, fat-bellied mosquito. And behind it trailed puff after 
puff of snow-white smoke. The guns were reaching, reaching — 
and never touching. A puff broke out just below it; another just 
above, a whole trail of puffs to one side. It was heading toward 
us — ^no, it had turned ! The fire had become too hot. It struck 
a course at right angles to our line of vision, it went on, it lost it- 



THE HOUSE AT ZAGORA 107 

self behind the turreted old church at the end of the market-place. 
And at that instant, something like a gigantic bee buzzed over- 
head. We at the front edge of the crowd craned our necks upward. 
One of our own great armored aeroplanes, its national device 
marked on the lower surface of its wings, had taken the air. It 
flew so near that we could see the vapor from its exhaust trailing 
behind it. At this new sign of reassurance, conversation suddenly 
bubbled out of the crowd like wine out of a bottle. We looked 
into each other's eyes and laughed, at first foolishly and then socia- 
bly. Gestures and jokes began to fly. A nun crossed herself with 
an air of great relief and fell into animated conversation with an- 
other nun. A group of girls began to exchange badinage with the 
military police. A few boys tried to venture out into the square; 
the police seized them by their little waists and breeches and 
hurled them back into the crowd — for the whistle had not yet 
announced the end of danger. The mother of one of the boys 
indignantly shook her fist in the face of the police. The crowd, 
taking sides at once, began to banter the police or the mother with 
about equal humor and enthusiasm in both factions. 

At this moment, I happened to look up and observe a proceed- 
ing which I had been seeing, without really observing, ever since 
the whistles opened. Across the square was an old building; on 
its roof stood a kind of open shed. Three women in black shawls 
and wooden shoes were hastily but methodically taking in their 
washing. At this moment they tucked the last sheet into 
their basket, grabbed it by the handles, and scurried for the sky- 
light. 

The whistle wailed again — a succession of short toots — "Raid 
over." On this signal, the crowd broke from the arcades as run- 
ners break from the mark at the starter's pistol. It was a race, 
with wooden shoes scuffling and peasant shawls flying, for the 
booths and custom. Two minutes later, the buying and badinage 
were going on as merrily as before the raid. Only our great ar- 
mored aeroplane soared low above us, with a kind of insolent' 
swagger in its glide. 



WITH THE ALPINI 

WILL IRWIN 

We mounted beyond the timber-line; mounted until those gray 
crags, so sharp that the snow could not cling, fenced us on both 
sides, and uritil that white wall which was the edge of the glacier 
glistened in our very faces. It was a great place to study the 
ways and the causes of avalanches. The rock walls were cleft 
to their top with gigantic runways. A little way below the sum- 
mit of these creases the snow began; it had found a slope just 
obtuse enough so that it might pile up. Thence it spread down 
toward us in great funnels and half-cones. You realized how, at 
any time, it might begin to start and slide, as it slides from a 
mansard roof in town. 

At a certain point the officers stopped. 

"We had better go no farther," said the chaplain. "There 
are brave men buried under there," he tidded, pointing to a great 
domed drift in the distance, "and we shan't get the bodies out 
until spring." 

We turned back — I with relief. This trail had been carefully 
laid to avoid avalanches as much as possible. But no trail is 
entirely safe in such weather. Alpini from farther up passed us 
as we stood waiting to gather and go. When they entered tiie 
sector of the path which ran below the funnels, they would 
glance cautiously over their shoulders at the runways above and 
then scurry past the dangerous point. And we scurried after them. 

Just before we turned back, one of the officers pointed upward 
to three of the funnels. 

"When one of them starts they all go," he said. 

And now, having learned the signs, we saw that there had been 
two or three avalanches that morning. None, however, had been 
great enough to cross our path. You could mark their course by 
the break in the even, white surface; by gigantic, irregular snow- 
balls; and even by rocks brought down from the crags. 

108 




Drawn by M. Dudovich 



WITH THE ALPINI 109 

Once moFe in the safe district, we took another climb. This 
brought us to a natural platform in the mountain, and to the foot 
of a curious piece of military work, devised since the war and of 
immense use to these mountain fighters. The author of this enter- 
prise, I believe, is a young engineer of Milan. He had seen it as 
an "aerial train" at work on the dump of a mine, and he adapted 
it to military use. 

The Italians call it a telef erica; and as we have no name for the 
device I had better follow their tongue. A teleferica is nothing 
less than a gigantic cash-carrier such as we use in department- 
stores. A carriage, perhaps four feet long by two feet and a half 
wide, depends from two wheels on a wire cable. Another cable 
draws it up, the power being furnished by gangs of men or by 
motor-engines. We stood on this platform and looked up to a 
perilous crag above. From platform to crag, perhaps a third of a 
mile, ran the double thread of the teleferica, one strand for the 
upward journey, the other for the descent. 

That crag, however, was only the first landing-place. From it 
another double wire stretched upward and lost itself in a cleft of 
the mountain. There were still other stages farther up, they told 
us ; and when the supplies had shot the last stage they were within 
comfortable reach, by man-back or sled, of the snow-covered 
advanced trenches. 

How useful the Italians make this device only their army en- 
gineers know. Later, and in another place, I saw a teleferica which 
makes the trip in seven or eight minutes. From its first stage to 
its second there is also a mule-trail, hewed out of the mountain- 
side. The mules take two hours and a half for the climb. In 
still another place I heard a commander boast that his series of 
telefericas did the work of thousands of men and, what was more 
important, did it more quickly in emergency. 

This, however, was a small hand-teleferica, the motive power 
being a wheel propelled by the sturdy arms of three reservists. 
Piled in one of the semicylindrical black sheds were supplies 
such as no army ever employed before this war, devices whose 



no WAR READINGS 

uses I did not understand until the chaplain explained. For ex- 
ample, there were "trench boots" to wear in the snow-huts of the 
glacier. Their soles were of thick wood, studded with sharp spikes. 
Their white felt uppers rose above the knee, and they were lined 
with the heaviest of rough wool. That tin bucket, as big as a 
ten-gallon oil-can, was not a fireless cooker, as I supposed, but a 
gigantic vacuum-bottle which would keep dinner for a squad warm 
all day. They cannot cook by ordinary means up there in the gla- 
cial trenches, where the snow drifts high over the sand-bags, and 
where one lives like an Eskimo. That would betray the position. 

Not only supplies go up that perilous cash-carrier, but men. 
By this means the high officers save time; by it the doctors ascend 
in case of emergency; and by it they bring down the wounded. 
An army surgeon, who but a year before was a prosperous specialist 
in Milan, remarked to me one day that he did not reckon, when he 
volunteered, on becoming an acrobat. 

As we walked down, he whom I have called the hero consented 
to give me a modest account of his exploit, for which, to the pride 
of his battalion, he was going to be decorated. He was just a 
slim, lean, agreeable boy in his early twenties — this hero. He 
told his story like a true soldier, without much detail. The won- 
derful thing about it was the way in which he and his party had 
refused to accept ill luck. They had started on skis to capture 
by surprise an advanced Austrian position on the glacier. The 
attack was timed for a certain hour when light and weather would 
be favorable. But the ski-party lost its way in a tempest of 
snow. When they discovered their mistake they decided not to 
turn back. In spite of an unfavorable hour and unfavorable 
weather, they stalked the Austrian position, rushed it, made every 
man who survived their attack a prisoner. 

The day had now come off bright and even warm — a favorable 
time for avalanches. And that morning I saw what the Italian 
officer meant when he told me that the avalanches went off all to- 
gether. I was walking with the chaplain. There had been some 
artillery fire; and one cannon-shot among the peaks reverberates 



THE SINGING SOLDIER 111 

like a salvo from echo to echo. Suddenly came a duller roar- 
ing, which I took for new guns. 

"Avalanche!" said the chaplain. "Look!" 

I could see nothing until I used the glasses. From three clefts 
at once rocks, great snowballs, the snow surface itself, were racing 
down like an express-train. 



THE SINGING SOLDIERS 

LEWIS R. FREEMAN 

Discipline of any kind is more or less irksome to the high-spirited 
Alpino, but he manages to struggle along under it with tolerable 
good-will so long as it is plain to him that the military exigencies 
really demand it. But the one thing that he really chafes under 
is the prohibition to sing. This is, of course, quite imperative 
when he is on scouting or patrol work, or engaged in one of the 
incessant surprise attacks which form so important a feature of 
Alpine warfare. He was wont to sing as he climbed in those dis- 
tant days when he scaled mountains for the love of it; and, some- 
how, a sort of reflex action seems to have been established between 
the legs and the vocal chords that makes it extremely awkward 
to work the one without the other. If the truth could be told, 
indeed, probably not a few half-consummated coups de main 
would be found to have been nearly marred by a joyous burst of 
"unpremeditated melody" on the part of some spirited Alpino 
who succumbed to the force of habit. 

I was witness of a rather amusing incident illustrative of the 
difficulty that even the officer of Alpini experiences in denying him- 
self vocal expression, not only when it is strictly against regulations, 
but even on occasions when, both by instinct and experience, he 
knows that "breaking into song" is really dangerous. It had to 
do with passing a certain exposed point in the Cadore at a time 
when there was every reason to fear the incidence of heavy ava- 
1 Prom Atlantic Monthly, copyright, 1917. Used by permission. 



112 WAR READINGS 

lanches. Your real Alpino has tremendous respect for the snow- 
slide, but no fear. . . . 

The Italian General Staff laid its plans for minimizing unneces- 
sary casualties; and so the order went out that soldiers passing 
certain exposed sections, designated by boards bearing the warning 
"Pericoloso di Valanga" (Danger from Avalanches), should not 
raise the voice above a speaking tone, and, especially that no sing- 
ing should be indulged in. This is, of course, no more than sensi- 
ble, for a shout, or a high-pitched note of song, may set going 
just the vibrations of air needed to start a movement on the 
upper slopes of a mountainside which will culminate in launch- 
ing a million tons of snow all the way across the lower valley. 
The Alpino has observed the rule as best he could — probably sav- 
ing not a few of his numbers thereby — but the effort is one that at 
times tries his stout spirit almost to the breaking-point. 

On the occasion I have in mind it was necessary for us, in order 
to reach a position I especially desired to visit, to climb diagonally 
across something like three quarters of a mile of the swath of one 
of the largest and most treacherous slides on the M^hole Alpine 
front. There had been a great avalanche here every year from 
time out of mind, usually preceded by a smaller one early in the 
winter. The preliminary slide had already occurred at the time 
of my visit, and, as the early winter storms had been the heaviest 
in years, the accumulated snows made the major avalanche almost 
inevitable on the first day of a warm wind. Such a day, unluckily, 
chanced to be the only one available for ray visit to the position in 
question. Although it was in the first week in January, the eaves 
of the houses in the little Alpine village where the colonel quartered 
had been dripping all night, and even in the early morning the hard- 
packed snow of the trail was turning soft and slushy when we 
left our sledge on the main road and set out on foot. 

We passed two or three sections marked off by the "Pericoloso" 
(Danger) signs, without taking any special precautions; and, 
even when we came to the big slide, the young major responsible 
for seeing the venture through merely directed that we were to 



THE SINGING SOLDIER 113 

proceed by twos (there were four of us), with a 300-metre inter- 
val between, walking as rapidly as possible and not doing any 
unnecessary talking. That was all. There were no dramatics 
about it, only the few simple du-ections that were calculated to 
minimize the chances to "total loss" in case the slide did become 
restive. How little this young officer had to learn about the 
ways of avalanches I did not learn till that evening, when his 
colonel told me that he had been buried, with a company or two 
of his Alpini, not long previously, and escaped the fate of most of 
the men only through having been dug out by his dog. 

The major, with the captain from the Comando Supremo 
(General Headquarters) who had been taking me about the front, 
went on ahead, leaving me to follow, after five minutes had gone 
by, with a young lieutenant, a boy so full of bubbling mountain 
spirits that he had been dancing all along the way and warbling 
"Rigoletto" to the tree-tops. Even as we waited he would burst 
into quick snatches of song, each of which was ended with a gulp 
as it flashed across his mind that the time had come to clamp on 
the safety-valve. 

When his wrist-watch told us that it was time to follow on, the 
lad clapped his eagle-feather hat firmly on his head, set his jaw, 
fixed his eyes grimly on the trail in front of him, and strode off 
into the narrow passage that had been cut through the towering 
bulk of the slide. From the do-or-die expression on his handsome 
young face one might well have imagined that it was the menace 
of that engulfing mass of poised snow which was weighing him 
down, and such, I am sure, would have been my own impression 
had this been my first day among the Alpini. But by now I had 
seen enough of Italy's mountain soldiers to know that this one was 
as disdainful of the valanga (avalanche) as the valanga was of him; 
and that the crushing burden on his mind at that moment was 
only the problem how to negotiate that next kilometre of beautiful 
snow-walled trail without telling the world in one glad burst of 
song after another how wonderful it was to be alive and young, 
and climbing up nearer at every step to those glistening snow- 



114 WAR READINGS 

peaks whence his comrades had driven the enemy headlong but a 
few months before, and whence, perchance, they would soon move 
again to take the next valley and the peaks beyond it in their turn. 
If he had been alone, slide or no slide, orders or no orders, he would 
have shouted his gladness to the high heavens, come what might; 
but as it was, with a more or less helpless foreigner on his hands, 
and within hearing of his superior officer, it was quite another 
matter. 

It was really very interesting going through that awakening 
valanga — so my escorting captain told me when we rejoined him 
and the major under a sheltering cliff at the farther side — espe- 
cially in the opportunity that the cutting through of the trail 
gave to study a cross-section of the forest that had been folded 
down by the sliding snow. Indeed, they had told me in advance 
of this strange sight, and I had really had it in mind to look out 
for these up-ended and crumpled pine-trees. Moreover, it is 
quite probable that I did let the corner of an eye rove over them 
in a perfunctory sort of way; but the fact remains that .the one 
outstanding recollection I have of that thousand-yard-wide pile 
of hair-poised snow is of the hunched shoulders and comically 
set face of my young guide as revealed to me when he doubled the 
zigzags of the tortuous trail that penetrated it. 

Time and again, as his eyes would wander to where the yellow 
light-motes shuttled down through the tree-tops to the snow-cap 
on the brow of the cliff toward which we toiled, I would hear the 
quick catch of his breath as, involuntarily, he sucked it in, to 
release it in a ringing whoop of gladness, only — recollecting in time 
— to expel it again with a wheezy snort of disgust. For the last 
two or three hundred yards, by humming a plaintive little love- 
lilt through his nose, he hit upon a fairly innocuous compromise 
which seemed to serve the desired purpose of releasing the ac- 
cumulating pressure slowly without blowing off the safety-valve. 
When we finally came out on the unthreatened expanse of the 
glacial moraine above, he unleashed his pent-up gladness in a 
wild peal of exultation that must have sent its bounding echoes 



THE SINGING SOLDIER 115 

caroming up to the solitary pinnacle of the massif still in the hands 
of the slipping Austrians. 

That afternoon, as it chanced, the teleferica to the summit, 
after passing the captain and myself up safely, went on a strike 
while the basket containing the young lieutenant was still only at 
the first stage of its long crawl, and he had full opportunity to make 
up, vocally, for lost time. It was an hour before the cable was 
running smoothly again and by then it was time, and more than 
time, for us to descend if we were to reach the lower valley before 
nightfall. I found my young friend warbling blithely on the tele- 
ferica terrace when I crawled out at the lower end, apparently no 
whit upset by the way his excursion had been curtailed. 

" What did you do while you were stuck up there in the basket ? " 
I hastened to ask him; for being stalled midway on a telef erica- 
cable at any time in the winter is an experience that may well 
develop into something serious. I had already heard recitals — 
in the quiet matter-of-fact Alpini way — of the astonishing feats 
of aerial acrobatics that had been performed in effecting rescues 
in such instances, and once or twice grim allusions to the tragic 
consequences when the attempted rescues had failed. 

*' Oh, I just sang for a while," was the laughing reply in Italian; 
"and then, when it began to get cold up there, I dropped over on 
to the snow and slid down here to get warm." 

I have not yet been able to learn just how far it was that he had 
to drop before he struck the snow; but, whatever the distance, I 
am perfectly certain that he kept right on singing all the way. . . . 

There was a trio of blithe rock-breakers that furnished me with 
one of the most grimly amusing impressions of my visit. It was 
toward the end of December, and Captain G., the young officer 
who had me in charge, arranged a special treat in the form of a 
visit to a magnificent observation-post on the brink of a hill which 
the Italians had wrested from the Austrians in one of their late 
advances. We picked our way across some miles of this shell- 
churned and still uncleared battle-field, and ate our lunch of 
sandwiches on the parapet of a trench from which one could follow. 



116 WAR READINGS 

with only a few breaks, the course of the Austrian lines in the 
hills beyond Gorizia, to where they melted into the marshes 
fringing the sea, . . . 

Half a minute later we rounded a bend in the stone wall we had 
been hugging, to come full upon what I have always since thought 
of as the Anvil Chorus — three men cracking rock to metal the sur- 
face of a recently filled shell-hole in the road and singing a lusty 
song to which they kept time with the rhythmic strokes of their 
hammers. Dumped off in a heap at one side of the road was what 
may have been the hastily jettisoned cargo of a half-dozen motor- 
lorries, which had come there under cover of darkness — several 
hundred trench-bombs, containing among them enough explosive 
to have lifted the whole mountainside off into the valley had a 
shell chanced to nose-dive into their midst. Two of these a couple 
of the singers had appropriated as work-stools. The third of 
them sat on the remains of a "dud 305," from a broad crack in 
which a tiny stream of rain-dissolved high explosive trickled out 
to form a gay saffron pool about his feet. This one was bare- 
headed, his trench helmet, full of nuts and dried figs — evidently 
from a Christmas package — lying on the ground within reach of 
all three men. 

The sharp roar of the quickening Italian artillery, the deeper 
booms of the exploding Austrian shells, and the siren-like crescendo 
of the flying projectiles so filled the air, that it was not until one 
was almost opposite the merry trio that one could catch the fas- 
cinating swing of the iterated refrain. 

"A fine song to dance to, that !" remarked Captain G., stopping 
and swinging his shoulders to the time of the air. "You can 
almost feel the beat of it." 

"It strikes me as being still better as a song to march to," I 
rejoined meaningly, settling down my helmet over the back of my 
neck and suiting the action to the word. "It's undoubtedly a 
fine song, but it doesn't seem to me quite right to tempt a kind 
Providence by lingering near this young mountain of trench- 
bombs any longer than is strictly necessary. If that Austrian 



THE SINGING SOLDIER 117 

battery "lifts" another notch, something else is going to lift here, 
and I'd much rather go down to the valley on my feet than riding 
on a trench-bomb." 

The roar of the artillery battle flared up and died down by 
spells, but the steady throb of the Anvil Chorus followed us down 
the wind for some minutes after another bend in the stone wall 
cut off our view of the singers. How often I have wondered which 
ones of that careless trio survived that day, or the next, or the one 
after that; which, if any, of them is still beating time on the red- 
brown rocks of the Carso to the air of that haunting refrain ! . . . 

On one of my last days on the Italian front I climbed to a shell- 
splintered peak of the Trentino under the guidance of the son of a 
famous general, a Mercury-footed flame of a lad who was aide- 
de-camp to the division commander of the sector. Mounting by 
teleferica from just above one of the half-ruined towns left behind 
by the retreating Austrians after their drive of last spring, we 
threaded a couple of miles of steep, zigzagging trail, climbed a 
hundred feet of ladder and about the same distance of rocky toe- 
holds — the latter by means of a knotted rope and occasional 
friendly iron spikes — finally to come out on the summit, with noth- 
ing between us and an almost precisely similar Austrian position 
opposite but a half-mile of thin air and the over-turned, shrapnel- 
pitted statue of a saint — doubtless erected in happier days by the 

pious inhabitants of as an emblem of peace and good-will. 

An Italian youth who had returned from New York to fight for 
his country — he had charge of some kind of mechanical installa- 
tion in a rock gallery a few hundred feet beneath our feet — climbed 
up with us to act as interpreter. 

To one peering through the crook in the lead-sheathed elbow 
of the fallen statue, the roughly-squared openings of the rock 
galleries which sheltered an enemy battery seemed well within 
fair revolver-shot; and, indeed an Alpino sharpshooter had made 
a careless Austrian gunner pay the inevitable penalty of careless- 
ness only an hour or two before. One could make one's voice 
carry across without half an effort. 



118 WAR READINGS 

Just before we started to descend, my young guide made a mega- 
phone of his hands, threw his head back, his chest out, and direct- 
ing his voice across the seemingly bottomless gulf that separated 
us from the enemy, sang a few bars of what I took to be a stirring 
battle-song. 

"What is the song the captain sings?" I asked of the New- 
York-bred youth, whose head was just disappearing over the edge 
of the cliff as he began to lower himself down the rope. " Some- 
thing from William Tell, isn't it?" 

Young "Mulberry Street" dug hard for a toe-hold, found it, 
slipped his right hand up till it closed on a comfortable knot above 
his head, and then, with left leg and left arm swinging free over 
a 200-foot drop to the terraces below, shouted back: 

" Not on yer life, mista. De capitan he not singa no song. He 
just tella de Ostrichun datta Italia, she ready fer him. Datta all." 

1 looked down to the valley where line after line of trenches, 
fronted with a furry brown fringe that I knew to be rusting barbed 
wire, stretched out of sight over the divides on either hand, and 
where, for every gray-black geyser of smoke that marked the 
bursting of an Austrian shell, a half-dozen vivid flame-spurts, 
flashing out from unguessed caverns on the mountainside, told 
that the compliment was being returned with heavy interest. 

"Yes, Italy is ready for them," I thought; and whether she has 
to hold here and there — as she may — ^in defense, or whether she 
goes forward all along the line in triumphant offense — whichever 
it is — the Italian soldier will go out to the battle with a song on 
his lips, a song that no bullet which leaves the blood pulsing 
through his veins and breath in his lungs will have power to stop. 



ITALY AT WARi 

E. ALEXANDER POWELL 

Mr. Powell is a well known war correspondent who writes from per- 
sonal observation. He is describing the ItaHan battle-front as it was 
before October 24, 1917, when a combined army of Germans and Austrians 
drove the Italians back to the hne of the Piave Eiver. Since this disaster 
the fighting has been for the most part on Italian soil. 

The Italian Front. — When I told my friends that I was going 
to the Italian front they smiled disdainfully. "You will only be 
wasting your time," one of them warned me. "There isn't any- 
thing doing there," said another. And when I came back they 
greeted me with, "You didn't see much, did you?" and "What 
are the Italians doing anyway?" 

If I had time I told them that Italy is holding a front which is 
longer than the French and British and Belgian fronts combined 
(trace it out on the map and you will find that it measures 
more than four hundred and fifty miles) ; that, alone among the 
Allies, she is doing most of her fighting on the enemy's soil; that 
she is fighting an army which was fourth in Europe in numbers, 
third in quality, and probably second in equipment; that in a 
single battle she lost more men than fell on both sides at Gettys- 
burg; that she has taken 100,000 prisoners; that, to oppose 
the Austrian offensive in the Trentino, she mobilized a new army 
of half a million men, completely equipped it, and moved it to 
the front, all in seven days; that, were her trench lines care- 
fully ironed out, they would extend as far as from New York to 
Salt Lake City; that, instead of digging these trenches, she has 
had to blast most of them from the solid rock; that she has 
mounted 8-inch guns on ice-ledges nearly two miles above sea- 
level, in positions to which a skilled mountaineer would find it 
perilous to climb; that in places the infantry has advanced by 
driving iron pegs and rings into the perpendicular walls of rock 

1 From "Italy at War," copyright, 1917, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 

119 



120 WAR READINGS 

and swarming up the dizzy ladders thus constructed; that many 
of the positions can be reached only in baskets slung from sagging 
wires stretched across mile-deep chasms; that many of her sol- 
diers are living like arctic explorers, in caverns of ice and snow; 
that on the sun-scorched floor of the Carso the bodies of the dead 
have frequently been found baked hard and mummified, while in 
the mountains they have been found stiff, too, but stiff from cold; 
that in the lowlands of the Isonzo the soldiers have fought in water 
to their waists, while the water for the armies fighting in the Tren- 
tino had to be brought up from thousands of feet below; and, 
most important of all, that she has kept engaged some forty 
Austrian divisions (about 750,000 men) — a force sufficient to have 
turned the scale in favor of the Central Powers on any of the 
other fronts. And I have usually added: "After what I have 
seen over there, I feel like lifting my hat, in respect and admira- 
tion, to the next Italian that I see." 

Venice in War Time. — Because it is a naval base of the first 
importance, because it is almost within sight of the Austrian 
coast, and therefore within easy striking distance of Trieste, Fiume, 
and Pola, and because throughout Venetia Austrian spies abound, 
Venice is a closed city. It reminded me of a beautiful playhouse 
which had been closed for an indefinite period; the fire-curtain 
lowered, the linen covers drawn over the seats, the carpets rolled 
up, the scenery stored away, the great stage empty and desolate. 
Gone are the lights, the music, the merriment which made Venice 
one of the happiest and most care-free of cities. Because of the 
frequent air-raids — Venice has been attacked from the sky nearly 
a hundred times since the war began — the city is put to bed 
promptly at nightfall. To show a light from a door or window 
after dark is to invite a domiciliary visit from the police and, 
quite possibly, arrest on the charge of attempting to communicate 
with the enemy. The illumination of the streets is confined to 
small candle-power lights in blue or purple bulbs, the weakened 
rays being visible for only a short distance. To stroll- at night in 
the darkened streets is to risk falling into a canal, while the use 



ITALY AT WAR 121 

of an electric torch would almost certainly result in arrest as a 
spy. The ghastly effect produced by the purple lights, the utter 
blackness of the canals, the deathly silence, broken only by the 
sound of water lapping the walls of the empty palaces, combine to 
give the city a peculiarly weird and sepulchral appearance. 

Of the great hotels which line the Great Canal, only the Danieli 
remains open. Over the others fly the Red Cross flags, and in 
their windows and on their terraces lounge wounded soldiers. The 
smoking-room of the Danieli, where so many generations of travel- 
ling Americans have chatted over their coffee and cigars, has been 
converted into a place of refuge, in which the guests can find shelter 
in case of an air attack. A bomb-proof ceiling has been made of 
two layers of steel rails, laid crosswise, and ramparts of sand- 
bags have been built against the walls. On the doors of the bed- 
rooms are posted notices urging the guests, when hostile aircraft 
are reported, to make directly for the rifugio, and remain there 
until the raid is over. In other cities in the war zone the inhabi- 
tants take to their cellars during aerial attacks, but in Venice there 
are no cellars, and the buildings are, for the most part, too old 
and Doorly built to afford safety from bombs. To provide adequate 
protection for the population, particularly in the poorer and more 
congested districts of the city, has, therefore, proved a serious 
problem for the authorities. Owing to its situation, Venice is 
extremely vulnerable to air attacks, for the Austrian seaplanes, 
operating from Trieste or Pola, can glide across the Adriatic 
under cover of darkness, and are over the city before their presence 
is discovered. Before the anti-aircraft guns can get their range, 
or the Italian airmen can rise and engage them, they have dropped 
their bombs and fled. Although, generally speaking, the loss of 
life resulting from these aerial forays is surprisingly small, they are 
occasionally very serious affairs. 



THE ITALIANS AT BAY^ 

G. WARD PRICE 

Moving a great army is an affair of time-tables. There is 
room for only a certain amount of men and material on the roads 
and railways at one time, and every man and every wagon above 
that maximum becomes a factor of confusion and retards the 
movement of the whole mass to a dangerous degree. The sudden 
retreat of an army is often reduced to chaos; first, because a thor- 
oughly worked-out plan of general retirement exists but rarely 
in the strong-boxes of any general staff, and secondly, because 
in the absence of a time-table drawn up in detail and strictly en- 
forced, the elementary principle of self-preservation leads every 
unit of the army to put itself on the road just as quickly as it can 
get transportation. This is not to say that confusion is an invari- 
able indication of personal panic; but it is very natural, and even 
very proper, that every battery commander, the director of every 
military store and depot, and the leader of every body of troops 
which is not definitely ordered to remain should have the in- 
dividual determination that his particular command shall not 
fall into the hands of the enemy. The artillery officer firmly 
resolves that he will save his guns at all costs; the heads of supply 
departments are in charge of valuable stores which their army 
needs for its very existence and which would be of great aid to 
the enemy if captured, and the troop-leader naturally argues 
that it would be futile to allow his men to be cut off when a general 
retreat had already been ordered. So if the organization of with- 
drawal is left to the discretion of the people involved in it, as it 
has to be when the whole thing has not been deliberately arranged 
beforehand, confusion is almost inevitable. 

Moreover, the enemy always seems to be advancing much faster 
than he really is. Under the discouragement that every army 

1 Prom Century Magazine, copyright, 1916, by The Centiiry Co. Used by per- 
mission. 

122 







Lraun by G. Capranesi. 



THE ITALIANS AT BAY 123 

feels in falling back, it is easy to credit the pursuer with exagger- 
ated powers of rapid motion; the defeated soldier forgets that the 
miles are just as long and weary for his adversary trudging pain- 
fully after him as they are for himself. Rumor, too, spreads wildly 
among tired and disheartened men. Enemy cavalry, enemy ar- 
mored motor-cars hurrying ahead to cut him off — that idea haunts 
the mind of each man in an enforced retirement. A further com- 
plication is caused then, as was the case in the Italian withdrawal ; 
the civilian population is also desperately anxious to be gone be- 
fore the arrival of the enemy. The news of the forthcoming 
evacuation of territory spreads backward with rapidity, and the 
roads along the route of the retreating army fill at once with un- 
regulated, disorderly swarms of frightened civilians and their 
household baggage, hastily stowed on slow-moving, dilapidated 
carts that are likely to break down at narrow points of the way 
and block whole miles of military traffic for hours at a time. The 
Italian army had to endure a great deal of that kind of complica- 
tion. Theoretically, of course, a general could throw back cavalry 
and mounted police along the line of his retreat and forbid any 
civilian traffic whatever, under pain of military penalties; but it 
is very difficult to use such measures against your own country- 
men threatened with invasion, especially when the whole aim 
and object of your war is to free men of your race from foreign 
domination. And not only does the sentimental reason of saving 
fellow citizens from the yoke of an invader forbid this course, 
but also considerations of common humanity. In the old wars, 
when the danger area of fighting was restricted to the places where 
opposing troops actually came into contact, there was no par- 
ticular danger for the civilian inhabitants remaining in invaded 
territory; though their property might suffer from the enemy's 
requisitions, their lives were likely to be safe. But wars of this 
modern character spread destruction broadcast over a whole 
region. A rear-guard action will involve a rain of shells that 
may smash to pieces any village on the line of retreat; gas may be 
used, creeping into the refuges where the non-combatant popula- 



124 WAR READINGS 

tion has taken shelter, and choking them there Hke vermin in a 
hole. War is no longer a civilly organized affair of pitched battles; 
it is a wild fury of destruction, raging across the whole country- 
side like a typhoon. . . . 

So, as with that little party of Englishmen I started on the 
retreat in the early morning hours of October 28, we seemed to 
be engulfed in a constantly broadening flood of human beings. 
We were in a train, the men in open trucks, miserable enough 
under the cold, streaming rain, the officers crowded into a closed 
van with the baggage. When we started in the dark we had the 
train to ourselves, but as I awoke three hours later from an un- 
easy sleep and looked out of the van, the rest of the train already 
swarmed with Italian soldiers who had clambered upon it as it 
crept along at a snail's pace. And when dawn came we saw ahead 
of us a long vista of trains stretching out of sight, while behind 
stood another queue of them, whistling impatiently like human 
beings at a ticket-office; sometimes one of them would back a lit- 
tle and make the others behind it back too, all screeching furiously 
with their whistles exactly as if they were trying to shout: "Where 
are you coming to?" 

Along the railway, and on the roads at both sides pf it, and across 
the fields beyond the roads, moved at the same time a crawling 
mass of people, all going in the same direction, all at about the 
same pace, without stopping, without talking to one another, 
every one of them just plodding slowly, wearily, persistently rear- 
ward. As you watched them you knew that each man had in his 
mind just ane idea, to keep on moving like that until he knew 
that he was safe. There was no panic or fighting during the 
retreat except at isolated times and places. 

These dark, sluggish streams of men and vehicles and beasts 
crept tortuously over the countryside like the channels of a 
delta trickling to the sea. Here and there little eddies of stragglers 
had been thrown out to each side. It is a curious thing, which I 
have noticed under similar conditions before, that each person or 
little group of persons in this mass of human beings seemed almost 



THE ITALIANS AT BAY 125 

unaware of the presence of the rest. You would see a family 
party of peasants gathered round their ox-cart and making a meal 
of bread and raw red wine without so much as a glance at the 
motley thousands streaming by at their elbows. . . . 

Among the trains that stretched out of sight along the line 
there were some trucks stacked with bundles of military mackin- 
toshes, woollen helmets, shirts, thick socks. Some inquisitive 
soldier discovered these and disinterred a complete outfit for him- 
self. A few minutes later he was a changed figure, with clean 
clothing in place of his own muddy, rain-soaked things, and a stiff 
blue mackintosh and sou'wester hat over all. The transfigura- 
tion attracted envious attention and he was besieged with ques- 
tions. Soon those trucks with their piles of white packages looked 
like giant sugar-basins swarming with wasps, and all around were 
throngs jostling one another for the next place on the heap. It 
was all quite good-humored; they were all laughing, waving their 
arms, calling to friends on the trucks to throw them a shirt or a 
waterproof, and when these things came flying down to them 
they turned away with the satisfied smile of children. Nothing 
puts human beings in such thoroughly good temper as to get some- 
thing for nothing. 

In this way the whole track soon became a litter of old clothes, 
which the retiring soldiers trampled into the mud. Amid all this 
chaos one kept on meeting utterly incongruous figures, for with all 
the world road-worn, shabby, and dirty, to be clean and well- 
dressed is to be grotesque. Amid this multitude of haggard, un- 
washed, unshaven, dead-beat males, I noticed two Italian ladies 
treading delicately over the rough ballast of the railway track. 
They had naturally brought with them in their flight the most 
valuable of their possessions, which were of a kind to be most con- 
veniently carried on their persons. Against this gray background 
of mud and rubbish and a disbanded army their two figures glit- 
tered with a brilliance that would have been conspicuous in the 
rue de la Paix.^ Heavy sable furs and muffs almost bowed their 
1 Ry dS la pa, a fashionable street in Paris. 



126 WAR READINGS 

shoulders; each finger had two or three rings that flashed in the 
light; round their necks were gold chains hung with pendants, 
and yet, instead of the air of self-satisfied ostentation that might 
well have gone with a display so lavish, there were only two pa- 
thetically little, frightened, perplexed faces, and an uncertain gait 
that did not promise much further progress along that ankle- 
wrenching railway-line. . . . 

It was about ten o'clock on that morning when I reached the 
village of Latisana, where was the southernmost bridge across the 
Tagliamento. The streets of the little town were simply chock-a- 
block with troops which were pouring into it from converging 
roads. Two or three Italian oflScers, splashed to the eyes with 
mud and hoarse with shouting, had organized some control at 
this point, or otherwise nothing would have moved at all. Push- 
ing soldiers this way and that, seizing horses' heads, straining their 
voices against the din of clattering motors, they held up each 
stream of traffic in turn for a few minutes and passed the other 
through. 

Conspicuous in his khaki among this spate of Italian gray, 
stood an English soldier contentedly munching dry brown bread. 
The motor-bicycle at his side indicated him as a despatch-rider 
belonging to one of the batteries. It would have been hard to 
say whether machine or man was the more travel-stained. The 
cycle's front wheel was badly bent, evidently by some collision; 
the soldier's hand was bound with a dirty rag, and his face clotted 
with the blood of a congealed scratch, the result of having been 
pushed off" the road by a motor-lorry in the dark and falling head- 
long down a stone embankment. Yet about both mount and 
man there was still an air of efficiency and unimpaired fundamental 
soiuidness that was encouraging, and the mud-plastered figure 
saluted the English officer at my side with a flick of the wrist 
that would have passed on the parade-ground at Wellington Bar- 
racks. Two guns of his battery, he reported, were three or four 
miles back down the road; the men were dead-beat, but the 
worst was that they had had nothing to eat for thirty-six hours. 



"LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD" 127 

owing to the tractor that had their rations on board catching 
fire and burning them; they had picked up scraps of bread that 
other troops had dropped, and some of them had tried and appre- 
ciated cutlets from a dead mule; they needed food to restore their 
strength, for they had been working hard without sleep for two 
days and nights. It had been forty-eight hours of continuous 
hauling on those heavy guns, which were constantly getting edged 
off the road by other traffic, and which had to be unhitched 
every time the tractor stopped, because it was so overloaded that 
it would not start with the full weight of its tow. So the officer had 
sent him on ahead to scout for food, and he had just found a sup- 
ply-station where they had given him a sack of bread to take 
back. 

"You all right yourself?" asked my officer-companion. 

"Quite all right, sir, thank you," he answered, and slinging the 
bulging sack across his shoulders, the despatch-rider straddled his 
battered bicycle and set off on a sinuous path through the wedged 
traffic, with his bent front wheel writhing like a tortured snake. 



"LIBERTY ENLIGHTENING THE WORLD" ^ 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

Thou warden of the western gate, above Manhattan Bay, 
The fogs of doubt that hid thy face are driven clean away: 
Thine eyes at last look far and clear, thou liftest high thy hand 
To spread the light of liberty world-wide for every land. 

No more thou dreamest of a peace reserved alone for thee, 
While friends are fighting for thy cause beyond the guardian sea: 
The battle that they wage is thine; thou fallest if they fall; 
The swollen flood of Prussian pride will sweep unchecked o'er all. 

1 Prom "The Red Flower," copyright, 1916, 1917, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 



128 WAR READINGS 

O cruel is the conquer-lust in HohenzoUern brains: 
The paths they plot to gain their goal are dark with shameful stains: 
No faith they keep, no law revere, no god but naked Might; 
They are the foemen of mankind. Up, Liberty, and smite! 

Britain, and France, and Italy, and Russia newly born. 

Have waited for thee in the night. Oh, come as comes the morn. 

Serene and strong and full of faith, America, arise. 

With steady hope and mighty help to join thy brave Allies. 

O dearest country of my heart, home of the high desire. 
Make clean thy soul for sacrifice on Freedom's altar-fire: 
For thou must suffer, thou must fight, until the war-lords cease. 
And all the peoples lift their heads in liberty and peace. 

' April 19, 1917. 



GOOD CITIZENSHIP 

GROVER CLEVELAND 

Our country is infinitely more than a domain affording to those 
who dwell upon it immense material advantages and opportuni- 
ties. In such a country we live. But I love to think of a glorious 
nation built upon the will of free men, set apart for the propaga- 
tion and cultivation of humanity's best ideal of a free government, 
and made ready for the growth and fruitage of the highest aspira- 
tions of patriotism. This is the country that lives in us. I in- 
dulge in no mere figure of speech when I say that our nation, 
the immortal spirit of our domain, lives in us — in our hearts and 
minds and consciences. There it must find its nutriment or die. 
This thought more than any other presents to our minds the 
impressiveness and responsibility of American citizenship. The 
land we live in seems to be strong and active. But how fares the 
land that lives in us ? Are we sure that we are doing all we ought 
to keep it in vigor and health ? Are we keeping its roots well sur- 




oan 



Drawn by Adolph Treidlcr. 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 129 

rounded by the fertile soil of loving allegiance, and are we furnish- 
ing them the invigorating moisture of unselfish fidelity? Are we 
as diligent as we ought to be to protect this precious growth against 
the poison that must arise from the decay of harmony and honesty 
and industry and frugality; and are we sufficiently watchful 
against the deadly, burrowing pests of consuming greed and 
cankerous cupidity? Our answers to these questions make up 
the account of our stewardship as keepers of a sacred trust. 



BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC 

JULIA WARD HOWE 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: 

He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are 

stored; 
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword: 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch fires of a hundred circling camps; 
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; 
I can see His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: 

"As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall 

deal; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel. 
Since God is marching on." 

He hath sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat; 
Oh ! be swift, my soul, to answer Him ! be jubilant, my feet ! 
Our God is marching on. 



130 WAR READINGS 

In the beauty of the HUes Christ was born across the sea. 
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me; 
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
While God is marching on. 



"OUR VILLAGE," SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE i 

STERLING HEILIG 

A French valley full of empty villages, close to the fighting-line. 
No city of tents. No mass of shack constructions. The village 
streets are empty. Geese and ducks waddle to the pond in Main 
Street. 

It is four o'clock a. m. 

Bugle ! 

Up and down the valley, in the empty villages, there is a moving- 
picture transformation. The streets are alive with American 
soldiers — tumbling out of village dwelling-houses ! 

Every house is full of boarders. Every village family has 
given, joyfully, one, two, three of its best rooms for the cot-beds 
of the Americans ! Barns and wagon-houses are transformed to 
dormitories. They are learning French. They are adopted by 
the family. Sammy's in the kitchen with the mother and the 
daughter. 

Bugle ! 

They are piling down the main street to their own American 
breakfast — cooked in the open, eaten in the open, this fine 
weather. 

In front of houses are canvas reservoirs of filtered drinking- 
water. The duck-pond in Main Street is being lined with cement. 
The streets are swept every morning. There are flowers. The 
village was always picturesque. Now it is beautiful. 

Chaplains' clubs are set up in empty houses. The only large 

1 From adaptation made by The Literary Digest from Los Angeles Times. 



"OUR VILLAGE," SOMEWHERE IN FRANCE 131 

tent is that of the Y, M, C. A.; and it is camouflaged against enemy 
observers by being painted in streaked gray-green-brown, to melt 
into the colors of the hill against which it is backed up, practically 
invisible. Its "canteen on wheels" is loaded with towels, soap, 
razors, chocolate, crackers, games, newspapers, novels, and to- 
bacco. At crossroads, little flat Y. M. C. A. tents (painted grass 
and earth color) serve as stations for swift autos carrying packages 
and comforts. In them are found coffee, tea, and chocolate; ink, 
pens, letter-paper, and envelopes; and a big sign reminds Sammy 
that "You Promised Your Mother a Letter. Write it To-day!" 
All decent and in order. Otherwise the men could never have 
gone through the strenuous coaching for the front so quickly and 
well. 

In "Our Village," not a duck or goose or chicken has failed to 
respond to the roll-call in the past forty days— which is more than 
can be said of a French company billet, or many a British. 

Fruit hung red and yellow in the orchards till the gathering. I 
don't say the families had as many bushels as a "good year"; but 
there is no criticism. 

In a word, Sammy has good manners. He looks on these French 
people with a sort of awed compassion. "They had a lot to 
stand!" he whispers. And the villagers, who are no fools ("as 
wily as a villager," runs the French proverb), quite appreciate 
these fine shades. And the house-dog wags his tail at the sight of 
khaki, as the boys come loafing in the cool of the back yard after 
midday dinner. 

Sammy sits in the group around the front door in the twilight. 
Up and down the main street are a hundred such mixed groups. 
Already he has found a place, a family. He is somebody. 

And what American lad ever sat in such a group at such a time 
without a desire to sing. And little difference does it make whether 
the song be sentimental or rag; sing he must, and sing he does. 
The old-timers, like "I Was Seeing Nelly Home" and "Down by 
the Old Mill Stream," proved to be the favorites of the listening 
French girls. For they will listen by the hour to the soldiers' 



132 WAR READINGS 

choruses. They do not sing much themselves, for too many of 
their young men are dead. But, finally, when the real war-songs 
arrived, they would join timidly in the chorus. 



THE FLAG GOES BY ^ 

HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT 

Hats off ! 

Along the street there comes 

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, 

A flash of colour beneath the sky: 

Hats off ! 

The flag is passing by ! 

Blue and crimson and white it shines 

Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. 

Hats off ! 

The colours before us fly; 

But more than the flag is passing by: 

Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, 
Fought to make and to save the State: 
Weary marches and sinking ships; 
Cheers of victory on dying lips; 

Days of plenty and years of peace; 
March of a strong land's swift increase; 
Equal justice, right, and law. 
Stately honour and reverend awe; 

Sign of a nation great and strong 
Toward her people from foreign wrong: 
Pride and glory and honour — all 
Live in the colours to stand or fall. 
* Copyright by Henry Holcomb Bennett. Used by permission. 



CHRISTMAS DAY "OVER THERE" 133 

Hats off ! 

Along the street there comes 

A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; 

And loyal hearts are beating high: 

Hats off ! 

The flag is passing by ! 



CHRISTMAS DAY "OVER THERE" ^ 

J. EDWARD NEWTON 

How French Kiddies Were Made Happy — A Truly 
Cold Church 

Somewhere in France, December 20. 

The fortune of war has made for me a very agreeable change. 
Instead of living in the humble home of the peasant I am living 
in a chateau situated in the most beautiful grounds. In only one 
respect is my situation for the worse; it is more difficult to keep 
warm. 

Since I last wrote I have picked up my trunk and now am situ- 
ated 25 miles south of my last appointment and 13 miles east of 
my first place. My room is a very spacious one — too spacious, for 
I should be more cosey in a small room and the fire would warm 
it better. My fire is of wet green wood and requires nearly all 
my energy to keep it going. Many times I can make it burn only 
through the active use of a pair of bellows. The fireplace is of 
gray marble, over which a large mirror reaches almost to the ceil- 
ing. There are some very beautiful cabinets in the room made 
of mahogany with marble tops. The chateau is built in a square 
and is of stucco. The major and adjutant are in rooms near mine. 
Still in all this magnificence my room lacks the comfort of warmth. 
Here goes for a fresh pumping with my host's bellows to draw up 
the fire. 

1 From The Courier Gazette, Rockland, Me. Used by permission. 



134 WAR READINGS 

In my work once more I am starting all over again. The place 
was being used as barracks when I came and the floor was not 
completed. Yesterday some French soldier carpenters finished 
laying the floors, and to-day they have been fixing the doors, closing 
cracks, etc. I have received some stoves and 25 tables, each with 
two benches, but I have neither lamps nor candles. My plans are 
being made for a Christmas celebration for the boys, but the wood 
problem is such a hard one I don't know whether we could keep 
warm or not. Many of the boys have severe colds and this group 
has been suffering with the mumps. 

This has been a very dreary Christmas Eve for us all. The 
Hut has been miserably cold all day, for we had no wood until 
past 6 o'clock this evening, too late to warm up. All day I have 
had to wear mittens; my overcoat I wear all the time. This 
morning, after breakfast, I took a walk around the park in which 
my chateau is situated. It is very beautiful, and thick clusters 
of mistletoe grow upon the trees. I have so much to write about 
and yet I cannot write it ! 

It is past 9 o'clock and I have just come to my room. The bugle 
blows first call for quarters at 8.30, then I begin to call out " Come 
boys, first call has gone," and they pull up from their places 
where they have been writing, playing checkers or dominoes, or 
standing around the stove talking. 

By the time the second call blows there is not a man to be 
seen and I lock up and make my way home through the deserted 
streets. Then I have my accounts to make up and this often takes 
me until 1 1 o'clock. The French have paper money of most miser- 
able quality and our boys, being used to good serviceable dollar 
bills, wad this up so it is all torn to pieces. The banks will not 
accept it in this condition, so the Y. M. C. A. man must paste it 
together, and we are provided with plaster for that purpose. The 
one condition we impose is that the bill is all there. 

Our men welcome the Y. M. C. A. work. They come to us for 
advice, lay before us their troubles and seek our help in every 



CHRISTMAS DAY "OVER THERE" 135 

way. Many are ready to respond to a suggestion that they lead 
a better Hfe, and by and by when the conflict gets more severe I 
anticipate an even greater wiUingness to do so. I have already 
been much surprised in this respect. To-morrow is Christmas 
Day. I would ask for no better present than just a letter from 
Rockland, but I am doomed to disappointment. 

Dec. 27, Paris. — This has indeed been a joyous day for me, for 
I have received some letters. I came to our Y. M. C. A. headquar- 
ters and there found my mail stacked up; also a Christmas pack- 
age from Rockland. You may imagine I was glad. 

Another of those sudden changes which occur in war came about 
and left me free for a few days, so I came to Paris to visit the den- 
tist and to do some business which I cannot speak of. I shall be 
here for a few days and I assure you it is a happy relief to break 
away from the field for a few days and be warm. Eating with 
your overcoat and mittens on and stamping on the stone floor 
while you do it to keep your feet from freezing isn't exactly like a 
July picnic at Oakland Park. 

But I must tell you about our Christmas celebration. First, 
for reasons which I must not explain, the Major ordered the Christ- 
mas exercises cut out. The day before Christmas a detail brought 
in great bunches of beautiful mistletoe and evergreen and from 
the Y. M. C. A. I received a huge bag of stuff for distribution. 
The Major and I looked over this bag and decided that the thing 
to do was to have all the school children gather at the Hut and 
give them a great treat. So we got the old man who acts as village 
crier to go around the streets beating his drum and announcing 
that all the children were invited to go to the Y. M. C. A. at 3 
o'clock on the date of the fete de Noel.^ 

Early in the morning I set to work with my detail, Stinford and 
Bill Thompson, to decorate the Hut. Eight huge bunches of mis- 
tletoe were strung down the centre, evergreens were put around 
the walls and a blaze of color was furnished by colored-paper 
1 Fete de Noel = Christmas. 



136 WAR READINGS 

decorations. The effect was a surprise, and when we opened up 
the Hut was very attractive and warm, but at 3 o'clock our wood 
gave out, so after that the dim candles were the only source of 
light and heat. But from 3 to 4 was a very happy hour for me. 
The children came in full strength with their teacher, the priest, 
and the mayor, and we made them the happiest lot of children 
you ever saw. They all assembed in the open space down the 
.centre of the Hut while our boys mounted the tables and benches. 
First the French lieutenant told them, as I had asked him to do, 
that we were far away from our own boys and girls, and, not being 
able to give them presents, we wanted to make the French boys and 
girls happy. Then I started to give the presents. To the little 
tots I gave bonbons, then to every boy and girl I gave a bagpipe. 
In two minutes the noise was deafening. Then each girl received a 
rubber face which you could pull all sorts of ways, and each boy 
received a whistle. To the older ones I gave puzzles and all sorts 
of things. Finally to every one, children, mothers, and soldiers I 
gave a horn. Then there was some noise ! 

After the gifts were all distributed little Pierre Galle came for- 
ward and read this little speech, which, translated, is: 

"Monsieur le Commandant: In the name of all my comrades, 

the mothers and little children of the Commune of , I wish to 

express to you our appreciation for your gracious and touching 
kindness and for the presents on this fete de Noel. So far from 
your country, so far from your family, you have bestowed upon us 
the affection which you would have given to them. We cannot 
fail to see that your young men have come in the flower of their 
youth to sacrifice their best years and to pour out their blood for 
the inestimable cause of our liberty, in aiding our valiant armies 
to drive the terrible invader from our soil. Thank you, my dear 
Commandant. Thank you. Messieurs. Long live the U. S. of 
America ! Long live the 167th regiment of infantry ! 

"Pierre Galle." 



CHRISTMAS DAY "OVER THERE" 137 

The interpreter gave the sense of it to our soldiers, and how they 
did cheer ! Then the children crowded around, saluting and saying, 
"Bon jour, Monsieur," and, slipping their little hands into mine,' 
they looked up at me with such expressions of happiness that I 
felt glad I represented to them the kindness of the American people. 

For our Christmas dinner we had one of Uncle Sam's turkeys, 
which the cook failed to roast sufficiently, but the boiled chestnuts 
were fine. After dinner I attended church in the village. I tell 
you the American people know nothing about a cold church. With 
the thermometer away down, a stone-floor and no fire, the church 
was so cold that we were numb in about five minutes. I wish I 
could tell you with what tremendous sacrifice and heroism these 
people keep their churches going. The church is their one com- 
fort. 

For our Christmas supper we had roast chicken. We officers 
clubbed together and bought two and the Madam roasted them 
finely. After this I hurried away to the Hut. A few men lingered 
in the cold, but some had the courage to write or play checkers in 
the dim candle-light! I had to clear up everything before going 
home, for we were to start early the next morning. At 5 o'clock 
the first call was sounded. Then we all made up our bedding 
rolls, hiked for the railroad-station, and caught the 8.42 a. m. train. 
At 11.40 p. M. we pulled into Paris and soon I was in a warm room. 
I am sending a piece of the outer covering of the big ZeppeUni 
which raided London, then lost its way and was brought down in 
France. 

1 Zeppelin= German airship. 



I HAVE A RENDEZVOUS WITH DEATH ^ 

ALAN SEEGER 

The author of this poem, Alan Seeger, an American, enhsted in the 
Foreign Legion of France during the third week of the war and was killed 
in battle July 5, 1916. He wrote twenty or more poems while in active 
service, all of them of high poetic quality. The "Rendezvous with Death" 
has been one of the most popular of war-poems. 

I have a rendezvous with Death 
At some disputed barricade, 
When Spring comes back with rustling shade 
And apple-blossoms fill the air — 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
When Spring brings back blue days and fair. 

It may be he shall take my hand 
And lead me into his dark land 
And close my eyes and quench my breath — 
It may be I shall pass him still. 
I have a rendezvous with Death 
On some scarred slope of battered hill. 
When Spring comes round again this year 
And the first meadow-flowers appear. 

God knows 'twere better to be deep 
Pillowed in silk and scented down, 
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep 
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, 
Where hushed awakenings are dear. . . . 
But I've a rendezvous with Death 
At midnight in some flaming town. 
When Spring trips north again this year. 
And I to my pledged word am true, 
I shall not fail that rendezvous. 
iProm "Poems by Alan Seeger," copyright, 1916, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 

138 



ON THE MONASTIR ROAD ^ 

HERBERT COREY 

This is a lively description of one section of the battle-line held by 
the armies of the AlUes. A great many geographical names appear here 
and the selection should be read with a map of this region on which the 
road described can be traced. 

The story of Macedonia to-day is the story of the Monastir road. 
Along this highway Alexander and Xerxes and Galerius once 
tramped with their legions. It has been the link between the 
Adriatic and the ^Egean Seas ever since history was written. 

For centuries it has carried its ox-carts with their solid wooden 
wheels, and long trains of donkeys and peasant women bowed 
under packs. Serb and Bulgarian raiders have descended on 
Saloniki along it. For thirty centuries fighting men and peasants 
and thieves and slaves have marched through its bottomless mud. 
To-day it is kaleidoscopic as it could never have been in the worst 
days of its bad history. To the ox-carts and donkeys have been 
added great camions and whirling cars filled with officers in furs 
and gold. Natty Frenchmen in horizon-blue, Englishmen in khaki, 
Italians in gray-green, Russians in brown, Serbian soldiers in 
weather-washed gi*ay, bead its surface. Fezzed Turks are there, 
and Albanians in white embroidered with black, and Cretans in 
kilts and tights and tasselled shoes. 

Color and Movement Fill the Road To-Day. — Airmen, so wrapped 
in fur that they remind one of toy bears, dash by in cars that are 
always straining for the limit of speed. Arabs, perched high on 
their little gray horses, direct trains of the blue carts of the French 
army. Gaudy Sicilian carts with Biblical scenes painted on their 
side-boards are dragged through the mire. 

Senegalese soldiers, incredibly black, watch with an air of com- 
ical bewilderment the erratic ventures of donkeys that seem to have 
been put under pack for the first time. Indo-Chinese soldiers in 
pagoda-shaped hats, tipped with brass, putter about at mysteri- 
» From National Geographic Magazine, May, 1917. Used by permission. 

139 



140 WAR READINGS 

ous tasks. Blackish-brown men from Madagascar carry burdens. 
Moroccans in yellowish brown swing by under shrapnel helmets. 

Soldiers of Allies Tread Historic Ground. — New levies marching 
toward the front, the sweat-beads standing out on their pale fore- 
heads as they struggle under their 60-pound packs, give the road 
to the veterans of six months' service — hard, capable, tireless. 
Overhead the fliers purr on the lookout for the enemy. Big guns 
lumber along behind caterpillar tractors. Ammunition dumps 
line the road and hospitals dot it. Girl nurses from France and 
the United States and all the British Empire ride over it. 

Always the ambulances are there. They are always given the 
road. The men who turn out for them anticipate the day when, 
in their turn, they will be riding in a Red Cross car toward Saloniki 
and home. 

At the farther end of the road is Monastir, taken last winter 
by the Allied forces in a battle that in any other war would have 
been set down as great. At the sea end of the road is Saloniki, 
the Allied base, where Cicero lived for a time and St. Paul shook 
the dust from off his feet as a testimony against the Thessalo- 
nians of his day, and where Suleiman the Magnificent ^ built the 
White Tower, in whose oubliettes^ bones still moulder of the vic- 
tims of 500 years of Turkish rule. . . . 

The Serbian army began the great retreat of 1915 250,000 
strong. Not more than 150,000 reached asylum on the island of 
Corfu after the winter's fight through the snow-filled passes of 
Albania and Montenegro. In the confusion of those days some 
one had forgotten. There was not sufficient clothing or medicines 
or nursing waiting them. Men who had struggled through the 
winter died on the open beaches of the Island of Vido. 

Dying men dug their own graves and then dug the graves of the 
men already dead. Not more than half were fit to serve again 
when the fall campaign of 1916 began. 

An Army of Old Men in the Fighting-Line. — It was a sad army — 
a bitter army — but not a despairing army that I accompanied 

1 A great Tiirkish ruler. 2 Dungeons. 



ON THE MONASTIR ROAD 141 

last winter. Many of these men were "cheechas," in the Serb 
phrase. When a man reaches the age of forty he becomes " uncle " 
to his neighbors. Some of these men were in the fourth line be- 
fore the war. 

Serbia to the Serb peasant means the little white cottage, the 
plum or hard, the ten acres of ground. Few of them had been 
fifty miles away from home when war began five years ago in the 
Balkans. Fewer have seen their homes since. They have re- 
ceived no news from their wives and families, for the Austro- 
Bulgarian censorship has been extremely severe. They had seen 
their comrades die. Most of them — three men out of five in some 
units — had been wounded at some time during the war. 

There were no songs upon the march except during those vivid 
days when the Bulgarians were being forced out of Monastir. 
There was no light-hearted music, except that now and then one 
heard the weird and complaining tones of a one-stringed fiddle 
which some patient soldier had made out of the material at hand. 
They kept to themselves or in little groups of twos and threes. 
At night scores of tiny fires would sparkle in the open land on either 
side of the Monastir road, where the paired comrades were cooking 
their evening meal. They marched badly, slowly, slouching their 
old shoulders bowed under their packs, their grizzled faces deeply 
lined. Yet these men were the cutting edge of the weapon that 
bent back the Bulgarian lines. . . . 

Occasionally the drama takes on an intimate — almost a neigh- 
borly — touch. Five cold men of one Serbian division became 
aware last winter that in the Bulgarian dugout just opposite their 
post — not 50 feet away — three fur-coated officers often met. 

"Let us get the fur coats," said the five cold Serbs. 

The story of the getting is too long to be told here. But during 
the two weeks in which the five cold men intrigued and manoeuvred 
for those three fur coats their entire regiment became aware of the 
play and watched it as one might a particularly entertaining 
movie. In the end the five cold men succeeded. Lives were lost 
on both sides; but that is beside the point. From the colonel 



I 

142 WAR READINGS 

down the men of that regiment rejoiced over the strategy of the 
five cold men. For the remainder of the winter they luxuriated 
in fur. The bitter winds of Dobrapolyi Mountain had no terrors 
for them. 

There was the old woman of Polok, too. Polok is hardly a ham- 
let. It is just a huddle of stone huts, stained by the ages, each 
crowned with a blackened and disheveled thatch. For weeks the 
Serbs attacked Chuke Mountain, in a dimple of whose shoulder 
Polok rests. Each day the village had been under bombardment. 
The artillery observers from their high posts could see the lone old 
woman going about her business. No other peasants were seen 
in Polok, but she milked her cows and drove them to water, as 
though peace reigned in the land. Once she was seen chasing a 
group of Bulgarian soldiers with a stick, as though they were a 
parcel of mischievous boys. 

Twice the hamlet was taken in hand-to-hand fighting and lost 
again. The third time the Serbs held it. 

The old woman picked her way down the cluttered hillside, past 
the dead men and the wounded, and through the shell-holes and 
amid the ruins of the other huts, until she found the ofiicer com- 
manding : 

" And who is to pay me for my cow ? " she asked. " What have 
I to do with your war? I want pay for my cow that is dead." 

German Fliers Watch the Allied Plans. — Sometimes the enemy 
fliers visit the Monastir road. On many a pleasant day they fly 
over Saloniki, 100 miles distant from their lines, on missions of 
reconnoissance. It is desirable to know how many ships there are 
in the harbor, for in this way they can keep an eye upon the Allied 
plans. 

It is not often that they drop bombs. Usually they come at 
the noon-hour, when all leisured Saloniki is taking its coffee in 
front of its favorite cafe. No one goes to shelter; it isn't worth 
while. Perhaps no bombs will be dropped, and if bombs are 
dropped experience has told those beneath that running and dodg- 
ing are futile ways in which to attempt to escape. 



ON THE MONASTIR ROAD 143 

It is not this conviction of futility, but real indifference, however, 
which keeps most men and women in their seats. They are "fed 
up" on aeroplanes, as the British say. 

Sometimes this indifference is carried to an extreme. One day 
I visited for the first time a hospital on the Monastir road. There 
were pretty girl nurses there — several of them. Next door was an 
ammunition dump. Farther on were hangars for the war fliers. 
On a recent visit an enemy plane, no doubt intending to bomb the 
ammunition depot, had dropped bombs instead in the midst of 
the hospital tents. 

The surgeon in charge was a practical man of forethought and 
reason. He had funk-holes dug all over the place — many funk- 
holes. No matter how unexpectedly a flier appeared, one had but 
to dive for the entrance of a funk-hole. It was somewhat rabbity, 
perhaps, but the plan was sound and safe. 

"Boche coming," trilled one of the pretty nurses. 

"To the funk-holes, girls; hurry," said the doctor. 

He stood at the mouth of his individual funk-hole and waited. 
Like a captain whose duty it is to stand by his ship, he felt that 
he must see his nurses secure. They had but to get into the 
bottom of the funk-holes and take a half-turn to the left and there 
they were safe — at least as safe as could be expected. 

No One Worries About Bomb-Droppers. — The girls ran. But 
instead of running to the funk-holes they ran to their tents and 
produced minute cameras, each having a possible range of about 
40 feet. They stood there in the open and snap-shotted the flier 
and uttered small, excited squeaks of satisfaction. The doctor 
did not go down into his funk-hole. He showed a regrettable 
lack of moral courage. I could not go either, for I was talking to 
the doctor. 



THE SPIRES OF OXFORD ^ 

WINIFRED M. LETTS 

I saw the spires of Oxford 

As I was passing by. 
The gray spires of Oxford 

Against the pearl-gray sky. 
My heart was with the Oxford men 

Who went abroad to die. 

The years go fast in Oxford, 

The golden years and gay. 
The hoary Colleges look down 

On careless boys at play. 
But when the bugles sounded war 

They put their games away. 

They left the peaceful river, 

The cricket-field, the quad. 
The shaven lawns of Oxford, 

To seek a bloody sod — 
They gave their merry youth away 

For country and for God. 

God rest you, happy gentlemen. 
Who laid your good lives down. 

Who took the khaki and the gun 
Instead of cap and gown. 

God bring you to a fairer place 
Than even Oxford town. 

- 1 Prom "Hallowe'en and Poems of the War," copyright, 1917, by E. P. Button 
& Co. Used by permission. 



144 



TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI i 

JOHN GALLISHAW 

The author of "Trenching at Gallipoli" was a student at Harvard 
University when the war broke out in 1914 and enHsted at once in the First 
Newfoundland Regiment. This regiment was sent to England for train- 
ing and after about ten months went out with the expedition that had for 
its purpose to break through the lurks at the Dardanelles and capture 
Constantinople. This expedition did not succeed, but the Newfound- 
landers did their part. Of the 1,100 men of their regiment who landed 
at the Dardanelles only 171 answered to roll-call on the day of the departure 
of the British armies. This story was written after the author had been 
wounded and honorably discharged from service. 

" Great Britain Is at War " 

The announcement came to Newfoundland out of a clear sky. 
Confirming it, came the news of the assurances of loyalty from 
the different colonies, expressed in terms of men and equipment. 
Newfoundland was not to be outdone. Her population is a little 
more than two hundred thousand, and her isolated position made 
garrisons unnecessary. Her only semblance of military training 
was her city brigades. People remembered that in the Boer War 
a handful of Newfoundlanders had enlisted in Canadian regi- 
ments, but never before had there been any talk of Newfoundland 
sending a contingent made up entirely of her own people and repre- 
senting her as a colony. From the posting of the first notices 
bearing the simple message, "Your King and Country Need 
You," a motley crowd streamed into the armory in St. John's. 
The city brigades, composed mostly of young, beautifully fit 
athletes from rowing crews, football and hockey teams, enlisted 
in a body. Every train from the interior brought lumbermen, 
fresh from the mills and forests, husky, steel-muscled, pugnacious 
at the most peaceful times, frankly spoiling for excitement. From 
the outharbors and fishing villages came callous-handed fisher- 
men, with backs a little bowed from straining at the oar, accus- 

1 From "Trenching at Gallipoli," copyright, 1916, by The Century Co. Used 
by permission. 

145 



146 WAR READINGS 

tomed to a life of danger. Every day there came to the armory 
loose-jointed, easy-swinging trappers and woodsmen, simple- 
spoken young men, who, in offering their keenness of vision and 
sureness of marksmanship, were volunteering their all. 

It was ideal material for soldiers. In two days many more than 
the required quota had presented themselves. Only five hundred 
men could be prepared in time to cross with the first contingent of 
Canadians. Over a thousand men offered. A corps of doctors 
asked impertinent questions concerning men's ancestors, inspected 
teeth, measured and pounded chests, demanded gymnastic stunts, 
and finally sorted out the best for the first contingent. The dis- 
appointed ones were consoled by news of another contingent to 
follow in six weeks. Some men, turned down for minor defects, 
immediately went to hospitals, were treated, and enlisted in the 
next contingent. 

Seven weeks after the outbreak of war the Newfoundlanders 
joined the flotilla containing the first contingent of Canadians. 
Escorted by cruisers and air scouts, they crossed the Atlantic safely 
and went under canvas in the mud and wet of Salisbury Plain, in 
October, 1914. To the men from the interior, rain and exposure 
were nothing new. Hunting deer in the woods and birds in the 
marshes meant just such conditions. The others soon became 
hardened to it. They had about settled down when they were 
sent on garrison duty, first to Fort George in the north of Scot- 
land, and then to Edinburgh Castle. Ten months of bayonet- 
fighting, physical drill, and twenty-mile route marches over Scot- 
tish hills moulded them into trim, erect, bronzed soldiers. 

In July of 1915, while the Newfoundlanders were under canvas 
at Stob's Camp, about fifty miles from Edinburgh, I was trans- 
ferred to London to keep the records of the regiment for the War 
Office. At any other time I should have welcomed the appoint- 
ment. But then it looked like quitting. The battalion had just 
received orders to move to Aldershot. While we were garrisoning 
Edinburgh Castle, word came of the landing of the Australians 
and New Zealanders at Gallipoli. At Ypres, the Canadians had 




Copyright by Darid Allen & Sons, Ltd., Dublit 



TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI 147 

just then recaptured their guns and made for themselves a death- 
less name. The Newfoundlanders felt that as colonials they had 
been overlooked. They were not militaristic, and they hated the 
routine of army life, but they wanted to do their share. That 
was the spirit all through the regiment. It was the spirit that 
possessed them on the long-waited-for day at Aldershot when 
Kitchener himself pronounced them "just the men I want for the 
Dardanelles." 

That day at Aldershot every man was given a chance to go 
back to Newfoundland. They had enlisted for one year only, 
and any man that wished to could demand to be sent home at the 
end of the year; and when Kitchener reviewed them, ten months 
of that year had gone. With the chance to go home in his grasp, 
every man of the first battalion re-enlisted for the duration of the 
war. 

In the Trenches 

After the blockhouse trench, our next move was to a part of 
the firing-line that I have never been able to identify. It was 
very close to the Turks, and in this spot we lost a large number of 
men. From one point, a narrow sap or rough trench ran out at 
right angles very close to the Turkish position. It may have been 
twenty-five or thirty yards away. To hold this sap was very 
important; if the Turks took it, it gave them a commanding posi- 
tion. About twenty men were in it all the time, four or five of 
them bomb-throwers. The men holding this sap at the time wc 
were there were the Irish, the Dublin Fusileers, or, as we knew 
them, the Dubs. The Turks made several attempts to take it, 
but were repulsed. When our men were not on sentry duty, 
several of them spent their rest hours out in this sap, talking to the 
Dubs. The Dubs were interesting talkers. They had been in 
the thing from the beginning, and spoke of the landings with 
laughter and a fierce joy of slaughter. Most of them had been 
on the Western front before coming to Gallipoli. From the Turk- 
ish trenches directly in front of this sap, the enemy signalled the 



148 WAR READINGS 

effect of our shots. They used the same signals that we used in 
target practice, v/aving a stick back and forth to indicate outers, 
inners, magpies, and bull's-eyes. Whoever did it, had a sense of 
humor; because as soon as he became tired, he took down the 
stick for an instant, then raised it again and waved it back and 
forth derisively, with a large red German sausage on the end of 
it. This did not seem to bear out very well the tales that the 
enemy was slowly starving to death. Prisoners who surrendered 
from time to time told us that at any moment the entire Turkish 
army might surrender, as they were very short of food. One thing 
we did know: the Turks felt the lack of shoes; out between 
the lines we found numbers of our dead with the boots cut off. 

While we were in this place the Turks dug to within ten or twelve 
yards of us before they were discovered. One of the Dublins saw 
them first He seized some bombs, and jumped out, shouting: 
"Look at Johnny Turrk. Let's bomb him out of it." But 
Johnny Turk was obstinate; he stayed where he was in spite of 
our bombs. One of our fellows, the big chap whom I had heard 
at Aldershot complaining about being asked for his name and 
number, had crawled into the sap. He made his way through 
the smoke and dirt to the end of the sap where only a few yards 
separated him from the Turks. In one item of armament the 
British beat the Turks. We use bombs that explode three 
seconds after they are thrown; the Turks' don't explode for five 
seconds. The difference of only two seconds seems slight, but 
that day in the sap-head it was of great importance. For a short 
while the supply of bombs for our side ran out. The man who 
was trying to get the cover off a box of them found difficulty in 
doing it. The men in the sap-head were without bombs. Mean- 
while the Turks kept up an uninterrupted throwing of bombs. 
Most of them landed in the sap. The big Newfoundlander who 
had crawled out looking for excitement found it. As soon as the 
supply of bombs ran out, instead of getting back into safety, 
he stood his ground. The first bomb that came over dropped 
close to him. He was swearing softly, and his face was glowing 



TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI 149 

with pleasure. He bent down coolly, picked up the bomb and 
threw it back over the parapet at the Turks who had sent it. With 
our bombs he could not have done it, but the extra two seconds 
were just enough. Five or six of the bombs came in and were 
treated in the same way before our supply was resumed. A bri- 
gade officer, who had come out into the sap, stood gazing awe- 
struck at the big Newfoundlander. Open-mouthed, with monocle 
in hand, the officer was the picture of amazement. At last he 
spoke, with that slow, impersonal English drawl: 

"I say, my man, what is your name and number?" 

The look on the Newfoundlander's face was a study. He knew 
he should not have come out into that sap, and every time that 
question had been shot at him before it had meant a reprimand. 
At last he shrugged his shoulders, then with a resigned expression 
answered the officer in a fashion not entirely confined to New- 
foundlanders — by asking a question: "What in hell have I done 
now?" 

Without a word the officer turned on his heel and left the sap. 
The big fellow waited until he felt the officer was well out of sight, 
then departed for his proper place in the trench. One of the Dubs, 
looking after him, said to me: 

"There's a man that would have been recommended for a Dis- 
tinguished Conduct Medal if he'd answered that officer right." 

That Irishman was a man of wide experience. 

"I've been in every war that England fought in that time," 
said he, "and I'll tell you now, the real Distinguished Conduct 
Medal men and the real V. C. heroes never get them. They're 
under the ground." Coming from the man it did, this expression 
of opinion was interesting, for he was Cooke, the man who had been 
given a Distinguished Conduct Medal for his work on the Western 
front. Since coming to the Peninsula he had been acting as a 
sharpshooter, and had been recommended for the V. C, the Vic- 
toria Cross, which is the highest reward for valor in the British 
army. He was only waiting there, for word to go to London, to 
get the cross pinned on by the King. 



150 WAR READINGS 

"There's one man on this Peninsula," continued Cooke, "who's 
won the V. C. fifty times over; that's the donkey-man." 

The man Cooke meant was an Australian, a stretcher-bearer. 
His real name was Simpson, but nobody ever called him that. 
Because he was of Irish descent, the Australians, who dearly lo^^e 
nicknames, called him Murphy, or Moriarty, or Dooley, or what- 
ever Irish name first occurred to them. More generally, though, 
he was called the Man with the Donkey, and by this name he 
was known all over the Peninsula. In the early days, the Anzacs 
(Australian-New Zealand soldiers) had captured some booty 
from the Turks and in it were some donkeys. It was in the 
strenuous time when men lay in all sorts of inaccessible places, 
dying and sorely wounded. Simpson in those days seemed every- 
where. As soon as he heard of the capture he went down, looked 
appraisingly over the donkeys, and commandeered two of them. 
On one donkey he painted F. A. No. 1, and on the other, F. A. 
No. 2; F. A. being his abbreviation for Field Ambulance. Day 
and night after that Simpson could be seen going about among 
the wounded, here giving a man first aid, there loosening the equip- 
ment and making easier the last few minutes for some poor fellow 
too far gone to' need any medical care. The wounded men who 
could not walk or limp down to the dressing-station he carried 
down, one on each of the donkeys and one on his back or in his 
arms. He talked to the donkeys as they plodded slowly along, in 
a strange mixture of English, Arabic profanity, and Australian 
slang. Many an Australian or New Zealander who has never 
heard of Simpson remembers gratefully the attentions of a strangely 
gentle man who drove before him two small gray donkeys each of 
which carried a wounded soldier. In Australia long after this 
war is over men will thrill at the mention of the Man with the 
Donkey. I agreed with Cooke that this man had won the V. C. 
fifty times over. 

Mr. Nunns came toward the group, looking for Stenlake (the 
Chaplain). It was Sunday afternoon, and he thought it would be 
well to have a service. Stenlake was found, and a crowd trailed 



TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI 151 

after him to an empty dugout, where he gathered them about him 
and began. It was a simple, sincere service. Out there in that 
barren country, it seemed a strange thing to see those rough men 
gathered about Stenlake while he read a passage or led a hymn. 
But it was most impressive. The service was almost over, and 
Stenlake was offering a final prayer, when the Turkish batteries 
opened fire. Ordinarily at the first sound of a shell men dived 
for shelter; but gathered around that dugout, where a single shell 
could have wrought awful havoc, not a man stirred. They stayed 
motionless, heads bowed reverently, until Stenlake had finished. 
Then quietly they dispersed. As a lesson in faith it was most 
illuminating. 

It was strange to see week by week the psychological change that 
had come over the men. Most of all I noticed it in the songs they 
sang. At first the songs had been of a boisterous character, that 
foretold direful things that would happen to the Kaiser and his 
family, "As We Go Marching Through Germany." These had 
all given place to songs that voiced to some extent the longing for 
home that possessed these voluntary exiles. " I Want to Go Back 
to Michigan" was a favorite. Perhaps even more so was "The 
Little Gray Home in the West." "Tipperary" was still in de- 
mand, not because of the lilt of a march that it held, but for the 
pathetic little touch of "my heart's right there," and perhaps for 
the reference to "the sweetest girl I know." 

Perhaps it may have been the effect of Stenlake's service, or 
it may have been the news that we were to go into the firing-line 
the next day, that made the men seek their dugouts early that 
Sunday evening. But there was something heavy in the air that 
night. For almost a week we had been comparatively safe in dug- 
outs. To-morrow we were again to go into the firing-line and 
wait impotently while our number was reduced gradually but 
pitilessly. The hopelessness of the thing seemed clearer that 
evening than any other time we had been there. Simpson, "The 
Man with the Donkeys," had been killed that day. After a 
whole summer in which he seemed to be impervious to bullets, a 



152 WAR READINGS 

stray bullet had caught him in the heart on his way down Shrap- 
nel Valley with a consignment of wounded. Simpson had been 
so much a part of the Peninsular life that it was hard to realize 
that he had gone to swell the list of heroes that Australia has so 
much cause to be proud of. A Company had suffered heavily 
in the front-line trenches that day. A number of stretchers had 
passed down the road that ran in front of our dugouts, with men 
for the dressing-station on the beach. One piece of news filtered 
slowly down to us that evening, that had an unaccountable, strange 
effect on the men of B Company. Sam Lodge had been killed. 
Sam Lodge was perhaps the most widely known man in the whole 
regiment. There were very few Newfoundlanders who did not 
think kindly of the big, quiet, reliable-looking college man. He 
had enlisted at the very first call for volunteers. Other men had 
been killed that day; and since the regiment had been at Gallipoli, 
men had stood by while their dugout mates were torn by shrapnel 
or sank down moaning, with a sniper's bullet in the brain; but 
nothing had ever had the same effect, at any rate on the men of 
our company, as the news that Sam Lodge had been killed that 
day. Perhaps it was that everybody knew him. Other nights 
men had crowded around the fire, telling stories, exchanging gos- 
sip, or singing. To-night all was quiet; there was not even the 
sound of men creeping about from dugout to dugout visiting 
chums. Suddenly, from away up on the extreme right end of the 
line of dugouts, came the sound of a clear tenor voice, singing: 
"Tenting To-night on the Old Camp Ground." Never have I 
heard anything so mournful. It is impossible to describe the 
penetrating pathos of the old Civil War song. Slowly the singer 
continued, amidst a profound hush. His voice sank, until one 
could scarcely catch the words when he sang: "Waiting for the 
War to Cease." At last he finished. There was scarcely a stir as 
the men dropped off to sleep. 

It was a quiet, sober lot of men who filed into a shady, tree- 
dotted ravine the next day behind the stretcher that bore the re- 
mains of Private Sam Lodge. Stenlake read the burial service. 



TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI 153 

Everybody who could turned out to pay their last respects to the 
best-liked man in the regiment. After the brief service. Colonel 
Burton, the commanding officer, Captain Carty, Lodge's company 
commander, a group of senior and junior officers, and a number of 
profoundly affected soldiers gathered about the grave while the 
body was lowered into it. In the shade of a spreading tree, within 
sound of the mournful wash of the tide in Suvla Bay, lies poor 
Sam Lodge, a good, cheerful soldier, uncomplaining always, a 
man whose last thought was for others. " Don't bother to lift me 
down off the parapet, boys," he had said when he was hit; "I'm 
finished." 

Wounded 

Just before nine o'clock I went down to see the cooks about din- 
ner for my section. On my way back I passed a man going down 
the trench on a stretcher. One of the stretcher-bearers told me 
that he had been hit in the head while picking up rubbish on top 
of the parapet. He hoped to get him to the dressing-station alive. 
As I came into our own lines another stretcher passed me. The 
man on this one was sitting up, grinning. 

"Hellow, Gal," he yelled. "I've stopped a cushy one." 
I laughed. "How did it happen?" I asked. 
"Picking up rubbish on top of the parapet." 
He disappeared around the curve of the trench, delightedly 
spreadmg the news that he had stopped a cushy one in the leg. I 
kept on back to my own traverse, and showed the diagram I had 
made the night before to Art Pratt. Mr. Nunns had granted us 
leave to go out that day to try to get the sniper in the tree. Art 
was delighted at the chance of some variety. While Art and I 
were making out a list of things we wanted at the canteen, a man 
m my section came down the trench. 

"Corporal Gallishaw," he said, "the brigade Major passed 
through the Imes a few minutes ago and he's raising the dickens at 
the state of the lines; you've got to go out with five men, picking 
up rubbish on top of the parapet." 



154 WAR READINGS 

Instantly there came before my eyes the vision of the strangely 
limp form I had met only a few minutes before that had been hit 
in the head "picking up rubbish on top of the parapet." But in 
the army one cannot stop to think of such things long; orders have 
to be obeyed. Since coming into the trench we had constructed a 
dump, but the former occupants of the trench had thrown their 
refuse on top of the parapet. My job with the five men was to 
collect this rubbish and put it in our dump. At nine o'clock in 
the morning we mounted the parapet and began digging. There 
was no cover for men standing; the low bushes hid men sitting or 
lying. Every few minutes I gave the men a rest, making them sit 
in the shelter of the underbrush. The sun was shining brightly; 
and after the wet spell we had just passed through, the warmth 
was peculiarly grateful. The news that the canteen had been 
opened on the beach made most of the men optimistic. With good 
things to eat in sight life immediately became more bearable. 
Never since the first day they landed had the men seemed so cheer- 
ful. Up there where we were the sun was very welcome, and we 
took our time over the job. One chap had that morning been given 
fourteen days' field punishment, because he had left his post 
for a few seconds the night before. He wanted to get a pipe from 
his coat pocket, and did not think it worth while to ask any one 
to relieve him. It was just those few seconds that one of the 
brigade officers selected to visit our trench. When he saw the 
post vacant, he waited until the man returned, asked his name, 
then reported him. Field punishment meant that in addition to 
his regular duties the man would have to work in every digging- 
party or fatigue detail. I asked him why he had not sent for me, 
and he told me that it had happened while I was out in the listen- 
ing patrol. He was not worrying about the punishment, but feared 
that his parents might hear of it through some one writing home. 
. . . When we had the rubbish all scraped up in a pile, we took 
it on shovels to the dump we had dug. To do this we had to walk 
upright. We had almost finished when the snipers on Caribou 
Ridge began to bang at us. I jumped to a small depression, and 



TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI 155 

yelled to the men to take cover. They were ahead of me, taking 
the last shovelful of rubbish to the trench. At the warning to take 
cover, they separated and dived for the bushes on either side. That 
is, they all did except Hayes, who either did not hear me or did 
not know just where to go. I stepped up out of the depression 
and pointed with outstretched arm to a cluster of underbrush. 
"Get in there, Hayes !" I yelled. Just then I felt a dull thud in 
my left shoulder-blade, and a sharp pain in the region of my heart. 
At first I thought that in running for cover one of the men had 
thrown a pick-ax that hit me. Until I felt the blood trickling down 
my back like warm water, it did not occur to me that I had been 
hit. Then came a drowsy, languid sensation, the most enjoyable 
and pleasant I have ever experienced. It seemed to me that my 
back-bone became like pulp, and I closed up like a concertina. 
Gradually I felt my knees giving way under me, then my head 
dropped over on my chest, and down I went. In Egypt I had 
seen Mohammedans praying with their faces toward Mecca, and 
as I collapsed I thought that I must look exactly as they did when 
they bent over and touched their heads to the ground, worshipping 
the Prophet. Connecting the pain in my chest with the blow in 
my back, I decided that the bullet had gone in my shoulder, through - 
my left lung, and out through my heart, and I concluded I was 
done for. I can distinctly remember thinking of myself as some 
one else. I recollect saying, half regretfully, "Poor old Gal is 
out of luck this morning," then adding philosophically: "Well, 
he had a good time while he was alive, anyway." By now things 
had grown very dim, and I felt everything slipping away from 
me. I was myself again, but I said to that other self who was 
lying there, as I thought, dying: "Buck up, old Gal, and die like 
a sport." Just then I tried to say: "I'm hit." It sounded as if 
somewhere miles away a faint echo mocked me. I must have 
succeeded in making myself heard, because immediately I could 
hear Hayes yell with a frenzied oath, "The Corporal's struck. 
Can't you see the Corporal's struck?" and heard him curse the 
Turk who had fired the shot. Almost instantly Hayes was kneel- 



156 WAR READINGS 

Ing beside me, trying to find the wound. He was much more 
excited over it than I. 

"Don't you try to bandage it here," I said; "y^H for stretcher- 
bearers." 

Hayes jumped up, shouting lustily, "Stretcher-bearers at the 
double, stretcher-bearers at the double ! " then added as an after- 
thought: "Tell Art Pratt the Corporal's struck." 

I was now quite clear-headed again and told Hayes to shout for 
"B Company stretcher-bearers." On the Peninsula messages 
were sent along the trench from man to man. Sometimes when a 
traverse separated two men, the one receiving the message did 
not bother to step around, but just shouted the message over. 
Often it was not heard, and the message stopped right there. One 
message there was, though, that never miscarried, the one that 
came most frequently: "Stretcher-bearers at the double." Unless 
the bearers from some particular company were specified, all who 
received the message responded. It was to avoid this that I told 
Hayes to yell for B Company stretcher-bearers. Apparently some 
one had heard Hayes yell, "Tell Art Pratt the Corporal's struck," 
because in a few minutes Art was bending over me, talking to me 
gently. Three other men whom I could not see had come with 
him; they had risked their lives to come for me under fire. "We 
must get him out of this," I heard Art say. In that moment of 
danger his thought was not for himself, but for me. I was able to 
tell them how to lift me. No women could have been more gentle 
or tender than those men, in carrying me back to the trench. Al- 
though bullets were pattering around, they walked at a snail's 
pace lest the least hurried movement might jar me and add to 
my pain. The stretcher-bearers had arrived by the time we reached 
the trench, and were unrolling bandages and getting iodine ready. 
At first there was some difficulty in getting at the wound. . . . 
The stretcher-bearer's scissors would not work, and Art angrily 
demanded a sharp knife, which some one produced. The stretcher- 
bearer ripped up my clothing, exposing my shoulder, then began 
patching up my right shoulder; I knew I had been hit in the left 



TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI 157 

shoulder and tried to explain that I had been turned over since I 
was hit. The stretcher-bearer thought I was delirious and con- 
tinued working away. I thought he was crazy, and told him so. 
At last Art interrupted to say: "Just look at the other shoulder 
to satisfy him." They looked, and as I knew they would, found 
the hole the bullet had entered. To get at it they turned me 
over, and I saw that a crowd had gathered around to watch 
the dressing and make remarks about the amount of blood. I be- 
came quite angry at this, and I asked them if they thought it was 
a nickel show. This caused them all to laugh so heartily that 
even I joined in. This was when I felt almost certain that I was 
dying. . . . Never as long as I live shall I forget the solicitude of 
my comrades that morning. The stretcher-bearers found that 
the roughly constructed trench was too narrow to allow the 
stretcher to turn, so they put me in a blanket and started away. 
Meanwhile the word had run along the trench that "Gal had 
copped it." I did not know until that morning that I had so 
many friends. A little way down the trench I met Sergeant Man- 
son. He was carrying some sticks of chocolate for distribution 
among the men. I asked him for a piece. To do so on the Pe- 
ninsula was like asking for gold, but he put it in my mouth with 
a smile. Hoddinott and Pike, the stretcher-bearers, stopped just 
where the communication-trench began. The doctor had come 
up. He asked me where I was hit, and I told him. He examined 
the bandages, and told the stretcher-bearers to take me along to 
the dressing-station. Captain Alexander, my company com- 
mander, came along, smiled at me, and wished me good-by. Hod- 
dinott asked me if I wanted a cigarette, and when I said, "Yes," 
placed one in my mouth and lit it for me. I had never realized 
until then just how difficult it is to smoke a cigarette without re- 
moving it from your mouth. Poor Stenlake, who by this time 
was worn to a shadow, was in the support-trench waiting with some 
other sick men, to go to hospital. He came along and said good- 
by. A Red Cross man gave me a post-card to be sent to some 
organization that would supply me with comforts while I was in 



158 WAR READINGS 

hospital. "You'll eat your Christmas dinner in London, old 
chap," he said. 

We had to go two miles before the stretcher-bearers could ex- 
change the blanket for the regular stretcher. The trenches were 
narrow, and on one side a little ditch had been dug to drain them. 
The recent wet weather had made the bottom of the trench very 
slippery, and every few minutes one of the bearers would slide 
sideways and bring up in the ditch. When he did the blanket 
swayed with him, and my shoulders struck against the jagged 
limestone on the sides. To avoid this as much as possible the 
bearers had to proceed very slowly. Those two miles to me 
seemed endless. I had now become completely paralyzed, all 
control of my muscles was gone, and I slipped about in the blanket. 
Every few yards I would ask Hoddinott, " Is it very much farther ? " 
and every time he would turn around and grin cheerfully, and 
answer, as one would answer a little child : " Not very much farther 
now, Gal." 

At last we emerged into a large side communication-trench, 
with the landmarks of which I was familiar. I was suffering se- 
verely now, and was beginning to worry over trifles. Suddenly 
it came to me that I was still a couple of miles from the dressing- 
station, and when we came out of the communication-trench onto 
open ground that had been torn up by shrapnel, I was consumed 
with fear that at any moment I might be hit by another shell, 
and might not get aboard the hospital after all, for by this time 
my mind had centred on getting into a clean bed. A dozen dif- 
ferent thoughts chased through my mind. I was grieved to think 
that in order to get at the wound it had been necessary to cut the 
fine greatcoat that I had so much wanted to take home as a sou- 
venir. I asked Hoddinott what they had done with it, and he 
told me that part of it was under my head as a pillow, but that it 
was so besmeared with blood that it would be thrown away as 
soon as I arrived at the dressing-station. From thinking of the 
greatcoat, I remembered that before I went out with the digging- 
party I had taken off ray rain-coat and left it near my haversack 



TRENCHING AT GALLIPOLI 159 

in the trench, and in the pocket of it was the little diagram I had 
drawn of the position of the sniper I had seen the night before. 
Again I called for Hoddinott, and again he came, and answered 
me patiently and gently: "Yes, he would tell Art about the little 
diagram." Where a fringe of low bushes bordered the pathway 
at the end of the open space, Hoddinott and Pike turned. For 
the distance of about a city block they carried the stretcher along 
a road cut through thick jungle. At the end of it stood a little 
post from which dropped a white flag with a red cross. It was the 
end of the first stage for the stretcher-bearers. A great wave of 
loneliness swept over me when I realized that I was to see the last 
of the men with whom I had gone through so much. I was almost 
crying at the thought of leaving them there. Somehow or other 
it did not seem right for me to go. I felt that in some way I 
was taking an unfair advantage of them. Hoddinott and Pike 
slipped the straps from their shoulders and lowered the stretcher 
gently. Under the blanket Hoddinott sought my hand. " Good- 
by. Gal," he said. "Is there any message I can take back to 
Art?" 

"Yes," I said, "tell him to keep my rain-coat." 
Since the moment I had been hit I had been afraid of one thing 
— that I should break down, and not take my punishment like a 
man. I was tensely determined that no matter how much I suf- 
fered I would not whine or cry. In our regiment it had become 
a tradition that a man must smile when he was wounded. One 
thing more than anything else kept me firm in my determination. 
Art Pratt had walked just behind the blanket until we came to 
the communication-trench. Even then he was loath to leave me. 
He could not trust himself to speak when I said: "Good-by, Art. 
old pal." He grasped my hand, and holding it walked along a 
few feet. Then he dropped my hand gently. There are some 
things in life that stand out ineffably sweet and satisfying. For 
me such a one was that last moment of farewell to Art. I had 
always considered him the most fearless man in a regiment whose 
name was a byword for reckless courage. Of all men on the 



160 WAR READINGS 

Peninsula I valued his opinion most. No recommendation for 
promotion, no award for valor, not even the coveted V. C, could 
have been half so sweet as the few words I heard Art say. With 
eyes shining, he turned to the man beside him and said, almost 
savagely: "By God, he's a brick." 

The men our regiment lost, although they gladly fought a hope- 
less fight, have not died in vain. Constantinople has not been 
taken, and the Gallipoli campaign is fast becoming a memory, 
but things our men did there will not soon be forgotten. The 
foremost advance on the Suvla Bay front is Donnelly's Post on 
Caribou Ridge, made by the Newfoundlanders. It is called Don- 
nelly's Post because it is here that Lieutenant Donnelly won his 
Military Cross. The hitherto unknown ridge from which the 
Turkish machine-guns poured their concentrated death into our 
trenches stands as a monument to the initiative of the Newfound- 
landers. It is now Caribou Ridge as a recognition of the men who 
wear the deer's-head badge. From Caribou Ridge the Turks could 
enfilade parts of our firing-line. For weeks they had continued 
to pick off our men one by one. You could almost tell when 
your turn was coming. I know, because from Caribou Ridge 
came the bullet that sent me off the Peninsula. The machine- 
guns on Caribou Ridge not only swept part of our trench, but com- 
manded all of the intervening ground. This ground was almost 
absolutely devoid of cover. Several attempts had been made to- 
rush those guns. All these attacks had failed, held up by the mur- 
derous machine-gun fire. Whole companies had essayed the task, 
but all had been repulsed, and almost annihilated. It remained 
for Lieutenant Donnelly to essay the impossible. Under cover of 
darkness. Lieutenant Donnelly, with only eight men, surprised 
the Turks in the post that now bears his name. The captured 
machine-gun he turned on the Turks to repulse constantly launched 
bomb and rifle attacks. Just at dusk one evening Donnelly stole 
out to Caribou Ridge and took the Turks by storm. They had 
been accustomed before that to see large bodies of men swarm over 
the parapet in broad daylight, and had been able to wipe them out 



IN THE TRENCHES 161 

with machine-gun fire. All that night the Turks strove to recover 
their lost ground. The darkness that confused the enemy was the 
Newfoundlander's ally. One of Donnelly's men, Jack Hynes, 
crawled away from his companions to a point about two hundred 
yards to the left. All through the night he poured a rapid stream 
of fire into the flank of the enemy's attacking-party. So steadily 
did he keep it up that the Turks were deluded into thinking we 
had men there in force. When reinforcements arrived, Donnelly's 
eight men were reduced to two. Dawn showed the havoc wrought 
by the gallant little group. The ground in front of the post was 
a shambles of piled-up Turkish corpses. But daylight showed 
something more to the credit of the Newfoundlanders than the 
mere taking of the ridge. It showed Jack Hynes purposely fall- 
ing back over exposed ground to draw the enemy's attention from 
Sergeant Greene, who was coolly making trip after trip between 
the ridge and our lines, carrying a wounded man in his arms 
every time until all our wounded were in safety. Hynes and 
Greene were each given a Distinguished Conduct Medal. None 
was ever more nobly earned. 



IN THE TRENCHES! 

MAURICE HEWLETT 

As I lay in the trenches 
Under the Hunter's Moon, 
My mind ran to the lenches 
Cut in a Wiltshire down. 

I saw their long black shadows, 
The beeches in the lane. 
The gray church in the meadows 
And my white cottage-plain. 
iFrom "Sing Songs of the War," copyright, 1914. Used by permission. 



162 WAR READINGS 

Thinks I, the down Hes dreaming 
Under that hot moon's eye, 
"Which sees the shells fly screaming 
And men and horses die. 

And what makes she, I wonder, 
Of the horror and the blood, 
And what's her luck, to sunder 
The evil from the good? 

'Twas more than I could compass, 
For how was I to think 
With such infernal rumpus 
In such a blasted stink? 

But here's a thought to tally 
With t'other. That moon sees 
A shrouded German valley 
With woods and ghostly trees. 

And maybe there's a river 
As we have got at home 
With poplar-trees aquiver 
And clots of whirling foam. 

And over there some fellow, 
A German and a foe. 
Whose gills are turning yellow 
As sure as mine are so. 

Watches that riding glory 
Apparel'd in her gold. 
And craves to hear the story 
Her frozen lips enfold. 

And if he sees as clearly 
As I do where her shrine 
Must fall, he longs as dearly, 
With heart as full as mine. 



WAR FLYING 1 

BY A PILOT 

The book from which these selections were taken was published under 
the pseudonym, "Theta." It is composed of letters written by a young 
officer barely nineteen, of the Royal Flying Corps, to his home people 
during his period of training and later when in actual service. These let- 
ters will interest boys who wish to know what it takes to make a "war 
flier." 

Ordered Overseas 

{After Kipling) 

Does he know the road to Flanders, does he know the criss-cross 

tracks 
With the row of sturdy hangars at the end? 
Does he know that shady corner where, the job done, we relax 
To the music of the engines round the bend? 

It is here that he is coming with his gun and battle 'plane 

To the little aerodrome at — well, you know ! 

To a wooden hut abutting on a quiet country lane, 

For he's ordered overseas and he must go. 

Has he seen those leagues of trenches, the traverses steep and 

stark. 
High over which the British pilots ride? 

Does he know the fear of flying miles to eastward of his mark 
When his only map has vanished over-side? 

It is there that he is going, and it takes a deal of doing. 

There are many things he really ought to know; 

And there isn't time to swot 'em if a Fokker he's pursuing. 

For he's ordered overseas and he must go. 

Does he know that ruined town, that old — of renown? 

Has he heard the crack of Archie bursting near? 

Has he known that ghastly moment when your engine lets you 

down? 

1 From "War Flying," copyright, 1917, by The Houghton Mifflin Co. Used by 
special arrangement with the publishers. 

163 



164 WAR READINGS 

Has he ever had that feehng known as fear? 

It's to Flanders he is going with a brand new aeroplane 
To take the place of one that's dropped below, 
To fly and fight and photo mid the storms of wind and ram, 
For he's ordered overseas and he must go. 

Then the hangar door flies open and the engine starts its roar. 

And the pilot gives the signal with nis hand; 

As he rises over England he looks back upon the shore. 

For the Lord alone knows where he's going to land. 

Now the plane begins to gather speed, completing lap on lap, 

Till, after diving down and skimming low. 

They're off to shattered Flanders, by the compass and the map — 

They were ordered overseas and had to go. 

The Development of an Idea. — The first number of the well- 
thumbed file of Flight, carefully kept by "Theta" up to the present 
day, bears date July 30, 1910, just two years after the first public 
flight in the world. At that time this particular public-school boy 
was thirteen years of age. His interest in aviation, however,- dated 
from considerably before that period, and its first manifestation 
took the form of paper gliders. Beyond the fact that they could 
be manipulated with marvellous dexterity and that they could be 
extremely disturbing to the rest of the class in school, no more 
need be said. In December, 1910, "Theta" felt that he had a 
message on airships to convey to the world, and he communicated 
it through the medium of the school Journal. Thenceforward he 
wrote regularly on flying topics for the Journal, and for four years 
acted as its Aeronautical Editor. Throughout 1911, with two 
school friends, he also assisted in producing Aviation, a cyclostyle 
sheet of small circulation proudly claimed as "the first monthly 
penny Aviation Journal in the world." Therein the various types 
of machines were discussed with all the delightful cocksureness of 
youth, and various serial stories based on flying adventures duly 
ran their course. For some years he pursued the construction of 



WAR FLYING 165 

model aeroplanes with an assiduity that may well have been fatal 
to school-work and games, and that was kept up until the German 
power-driven model drove the elastically propelled machines into 
realms of toydom. A motley crowd of enthusiasts used to gather 
every Saturday and Sunday in one of the great open spaces of 
London for the practice of their craft — nearly all boys in their 
teens, occasionally one or two grown-ups with mechanical interests. 
When the War came the group broke up. Some of them took up 
real aircraft construction; others became attached to the Air 
Service, naval and military, and mechanics. At least two became 
flying officers. 

In Training. — "Theta" was born in May, 1897; the War broke 
out in August, 1914. On his eighteenth birthday "Theta" de- 
cided that it was time to " get a move on." His ambition from the 
first had been to enter the Royal Flying Corps. This was opposed 
chiefly because of his youth and seeming immaturity and the ex- 
cessive danger attached to training. But fate, impelled by inclina- 
tion, proved too strong. . , . 

After many preliminaries an appointment was secured at the 
War Office with a High Official of Military Aeronautics. There 
"Theta" was subjected to a curiously interesting catechism 
which seemed to touch on nearly every possible branch of activity 
under the sun except aviation. Finally the High Official, probably 
seeing a way of ridding himself of a candidate who had accom- 
plished little or nothing of the various deeds of daring enumerated 
in the Shorter Catechism, suggested an immediate medical examina- 
tion on the premises. That ordeal safely passed, "Theta" re- 
turned to his catechist, who said wearily: "Well, we'll try you, 
but you know you have not many of the qualifications for a flying 
officer." "Theta" returned to school to await his summons, 
which was promised within two months. The school term ended; 
a motor-cycling holiday in Devon followed — and still no call. 
On the return to London a reminder was sent to the War Office. 
There immediately came a telegram ordering "Theta" to report 
for instruction at what may be called Aerodrome "A." 



166 WAR READINGS 

Training began almost at once with a joy ride of ten minutes' 
duration. But the weather was for the most part what the avi- 
ators in their slang call "dud." An "abominable mist" hung 
over the aerodrome, and consequently, though the period of in- 
struction was fairly prolonged, the opportunities for flights were 
few. There was much waiting and little flying, and the bored 
youth was driven to music and rhyming to fill up the interstices. 
But before the end of the year a good deal had been accomplished. 
At the close of his eleventh lesson "Theta" was told to hold him- 
self in readiness for a "solo" performance. 

After four more flights came the successful tests for the "Ticket" 
which transforms the pupil into a certificated aviator. This pre- 
liminary triumph was celebrated the same evening by a joy ride 
at nearly 2,000 feet, the highest altitude that "Theta" had reached 
on a solo performance. Nearly four years and a half had elapsed 
between the schoolboy "Ticket" and the real thing. 

Then came a transfer to another and more advanced type of 
machine. On this there were but three flights with an instructor, 
and then another "solo" performance. Toward the close of the 
year "Theta" left Aerodrome "A" for Aerodrome "B," having 
in the meantime been gazetted as a probationary second lieutenant. 
Special Reserve. 

The advanced course occupied about three months. It proved 
more exciting in many ways. In the elementary portion of train- 
ing "Theta" saw many "crashes," none of which, however, proved 
fatal. In the second, war conditions more nearly prevailed, and 
at times — ^when, for example, three colleagues lost their lives in 
flying, and a Canadian friend who shared his hut in training 
was reported "missing, believed killed," within a few weeks of 
reaching the front — the stern realities of his new profession were 
driven home. 

But youth is ever cheerful and optimistic. In fulness of time 
there came a flight of a covey of seven " probationaries " in one 
taxicab to an examination centre for "wings," a successful end- 
ing, followed shortly afterward by final leave, an early-morning 



WAR FLYING 167 

gathering of newly made flying oflicers at Charing Cro.ss Station, 
the leave-taking, and the departure to the front. 

Training was over; the testing-time had come. Before his 
nineteenth birthday was reached "Theta" had been across the 
German lines. 

My First Flying Lesson.— Uaye had a ten minutes' flight this 
evening. It was splendid and felt perfectly safe. Machine seems 
quite simple to control. I had my hands on the dual set, and felt 
how the pilot did it. Don't expect I shall get up again for a long 
time. I was quite warm, and felt happy, calm, and confident. . . . 
My first flying lesson was in the gathering dusk of a cold evening, 
but an extra leathern waistcoat and an overcoat and muffler kept 
me warm. I mounted to my seat behind the pilot in the nacelle 
of the huge biplane, fastened my safety-belt, donned my helmet, 
and sat tight. 

A duologue ensued between the pilot and the mechanic who 
was about to swing the propeller and to start the great 70-h. p. 
Renault engine. 

"Switch off," sang out the mechanic. 

"Switch off," echoed the pilot as he complied with the request. 

"Suck in," shouted the mechanic. 

The pilot moved a lever. "Suck in," he echoed. 

The mechanic put forth his strength, and turned the propeller 
round half a dozen times or so to draw petrol into the cylinders. 

"Contact," he shouted. 

"Contact," came back the echo from the pilot as he switched 
on. 

A lusty heave of the propefler, and the engine was started. 

For a moment the machine was held back, while the pilot lis- 
tened to the deep throbbing of the motor, and then satisfied with 
its running, he waved his hand, and we began to "taxi" rapidly 
across the aerodrome to the starting-point. The starting-point 
varies almost every day, as the rule is to start facing the wind. 
Then we turned, the pilot opened the throttle wide, and a deep 
roar behind us betokened the instant response of the engine. 



168 WAR READINGS 

With the propeller doing its 900 revolutions a minute we were soon 
travelling over the ground at 40 m. p. h. The motion got smoother, 
and on looking down I found to my surprise that we were already 
some thirty feet above the ground. A slight movement of the ele- 
vator, and we started to climb in earnest. A couple of circuits and 
we were 700 feet up. 

The pilot looked round and signalled to me to put my hands on 
the controls. I did so, and then — apparently to test my nerves — 
he started doing some real sporting "stunts," dives, steep-banks, 
and so on — in fact, everything but looping the loop. However, 
it did not occur to me at the time to be nervous, I was enjoying it 
so much. And so at last the pilot, who kept casting furtive glances 
at me, was satisfied, and taking her up to 1,000 feet put her on an 
even keel, and took both his hands off the controls, putting them 
on the sides of the nacelle and leaving poor little me to manage 
the '"bus." This I did all right, keeping her horizontal and 
jockeying her up with the ailerons when one of the wings dropped 
a little in an air-pocket. On reaching the other side of the 
" 'drome" he retook control, turned her, and let me repeat my per- 
formance. 

Then, again taking control, the pilot, after a few more stunts, 
throttled down till his engine was just "ticking over," and did a 
volplane from 1,000 feet into the almost invisible aerodrome. A 
gentle landing in the growing darkness and rising fog, a swift 
"taxi" along the ground to the open hangar, and my first lesson in 
aerial navigation was concluded. 

The teaching methods may be considered rather abrupt, but 
they are those adopted now by all the flying schools. The pu- 
pil is taken up straight away on a dual-control machine to a height 
of about 1,000 feet, and then is allowed to lean forward and amuse 
himself with the second set of controls, any excessive mistake being 
corrected by the pilot. After a time he is allowed to turn unaided, 
to do complete circuits unaided, and finally to land the machine 
unaided. If he does this successfully he is sent "solo," and after 



WAR FLYING 169 

a few "solos" is sent up for his "ticket" of Royal Aero Club Cer- 
tificate. At the time of writing I am doing circuits unaided, but I 
hope, weather permitting, to have come down unaided by the time 
this appears in print. 

On Going "Solo." — At last I have gone "solo." On Sunday and 
Monday two of our machines were smashed by pupils on their first 
solos and both machines had to be scrapped. In consequence, the 
pilots have been rather chary about letting us go up alone, and we, 
too, have been wondering whether we were fated to follow the 
example of the others. 

At length, however. Captain sent up X this evening, and 

he got on all right. So he turned to me suddenly and said: " Well, 
you'd better go and break your neck now." Thus cheered, I 
gave my hat as a parting gift to Y, shook hands mournfully all 
round, and amid lamentations and tears took my seat for the first 
time in the pilot's seat. 

"Contact," etc., and my engine was running. I pointed her 
out into the aerodrome, and then turned her to the right; but 
"taxing "'is almost as tricky as flying, and before I could stop it 
the machine had turned completely round. However, I got it 
straight again, and taxied to the starting-place. 

A "biff" of my left hand on the throttle, and the engine was 
going all out. Faster and faster over the ground; a touch of the 
controls, and we were off ! The next thing I recollect was passing 
over a machine on the ground at a height of 200 feet, and then I 
was at the other end of the aerodrome. This meant a turn; so 
down went the nose, then rudder and bank, and round we came 
in fine style. A touch on the aileron control, and we were level 

again. Thus I went on for ten minutes, and as Captain had 

told me to do only one circuit and I had done considerably more, 
I decided to come down. 

It was growing dusk, so it was as well that I did. I took her 
outside the "'drome," then pointed her in, put the nose down and 
pulled back the throttle. 

The roar of the engine ceased, and the ground loomed nearer. 



170 WAR READINGS 

A very slight movement of the controls and we flattened out three 
feet above the ground and did a gentle landing. 

A touch on the throttle, a roar, and I taxied back to the waiting 
mechanics. " Good landing," sang out one of them, and a moment 
later some half a dozen pupils were shaking me violently by all the 
hands they could find and all talking at once in loud voices. 

"Somewhere." — I am here at last. Where that is, however, I 
can't tell you. . . . We had a good journey, but while I was 
snoozing the carriage door — which must have been carelessly 
shut by one of our men — opened, and one of my field-boots de- 
parted. I had taken them off so as to sleep better. I told a police 
corporal at the next station, and he is trying to get it. I had to 
put on puttees and boots, and pack the odd field-boot. . . . You 
would hardly believe we were on Active Service here, although we 
are, of course, within hearing of the big guns. There is a stream 
near by where we can bathe. We have sleeping-huts fitted with 
electric light, nice beds, a good mess, and passable aerodrome. 
The fellows all seem nice, too. I have met three of our squadron 
before. 

I have been up several times, but have not had a job yet. I have 
been learning the district, and how to land and rise on cinder 
paths ten feet wide. The ground here is rather rough, and it 
speaks well for our under-carriages that they stand up to it so well. 
A good landing is a bounce of about twenty feet into the air, and 
a diminuendo of bounces, like a grasshopper — ^until you pull up. 
A fairly bad landing is a bounce of fifty feet and diminuendo. 
Every one here is cheerful, and thinks flying is a gentleman's game, 
and infinitely better than the trenches; when your work is over 
for the day, there is no more anxiety until your next turn comes 
round, for you can read and sleep out of range of the enemy's 
guns. What a pity the whole war could not be conducted like 
that, both sides out of range of each other's guns all the time ! 

One of our more cheerful optimists feels sure the war will end in 
the next four or five years. 



WAR FLYING 171 

My field-boot has turned up, much to my surprise. It was 
forwarded on to me by our local Railway Transport Officer. 

(To B. C.) Archies. — I have been putting off writing to you till 
I can tell you how I like German Archies. Well, I can tell you 
now; that is, I can tell you how I don't like them if you promise 
not to show any one else this letter. Still, perhaps I'd better not; 
you are such a good little boy and have only just left school ; per- 
haps one day when you are grown up I'll tell you my opinion of 
Archie. 

Yesterday I was some miles across the line with my observer, 
as an escort to another machine, and was Archied like the — er — 
dickens, shells bursting all round and some directly under me. 
Why the machine wasn't riddled I don't know. I was nearly 
10,000 feet up too. The Archies burst, leaving black puffs of 
smoke in the air, so that the gunners could see the result. Those 
puffs were all over the sky. Talk about dodge ! Banking both 
ways at once ! 'Orrible. What's more, I had to stay over them, 
dodging about until the other machine chose to come back or 
finished directing the shooting. Both W. and J., who came here 
with me, got holes in their planes from Archie the day before yes- 
terday, and W. had a scrap with a Fokker yesterday and got 
thirty holes through his plane about three feet from his seat. The 
Fokker approached to within twenty-five feet. W. had a mechanic 
with him, and he fired a drum of ammunition at it, and the Fokker 
dived for the ground. So the pilot was either wounded or — 
well, they don't know how the machine landed, but are hoping to 
hear from the people in the trenches. The funny part is that 
the Fokker attacked as usual by diving from behind, and W.'s 
observer turned round and fired kneeling on the seat; but W. 
never saw the Fokker once during the whole fight or after. W. 
had his main spar of one wing shot away, and several bracing 
wires, etc.; so he had a lucky escape. 

My latest adventure is that my engine suddenly stopped dead 
when I was a mile over the German lines. My top tank petrol- 



172 WAR READINGS 

gauge was broken, and was registering twelve gallons when it 
was really empty. I dropped 1,000 feet before I could pump up 
the petrol from the lower tank to the top, and was being Archied, 
too; but I could have got back to our side easily even if the engine 
had refused to start, though it would have been unpleasant to 
cross the lines at a low altitude. I have had the petrol-gauge 
put right now. Incidentally, not knowing how much petrol you 
have is rather awkward, as I landed with less than two gallons at 
the end of that flight; that is ten minutes' petrol. 

Hide-and-Seek. — All goes well, and I have finished my job for 
to-day (a three-hours' patrol) without seeing a Hun or getting 
an Archie. Two of us went up and F. had streamers on his wings ; 
he was going to direct the flight, and I was to follow him. It was 
very cloudy, and F., being in a skittish mood, played hide-and-seek 
round them. This was good fun for the first hour, but after that 
it became boring. Once, when I was following him a short dis- 
tance behind, he ran slap into the middle of a huge cloud. I said 
to myself, "If you think I am going to follow you there you're 
jolly well mistaken"; so I waited outside the cloud, and was 
gratified to see him come out at the bottom in a vertical bank, 
about 500 feet directly below me. It turned out that he had 
been pumping up the pressure in his petrol-tank, roaring with 
laughter as his passenger gave a little jump at every pumpful, 
for the passenger sits on one of the large petrol-tanks, which 
swells or "unkinks" itself as you pump, and to his disgust he had 
run slap into the cloud without seeing it. It was a wonderful 
sight among the clouds, and to see the other aeroplane dodging 
in and out of grottos, canyons, and tunnels, poking its nose here 
and there, sometimes worrying a zigzag course through a maze 
of cloudlets, and sometimes turning back from an impenetrable 
part with a vertical bank, outlining the machine sharply against 
the cloud. Finally we came down to a height of 5,000 feet, and 
there, just by the lines, we had a sham battle for the amusement of 
the Tommies in the trenches. 

Dual Control. — I am at present flying a machine fitted with dual 
control. A couple of days ago I went up to test it and E. came 



WAR FLYING 173 

with me. We trotted round the country very low and stunted gen- 
tly over neighboring villages. You can easily tell when people are 
watching you, as, in looking up, the black blob of the hat changes 
to the white blob of the face. We went up again yesterday, and 
when I had taken the machine to 2,000 feet or so, I signalled E., 
and he fitted in his control-lever and took charge. I then had a 
pleasant little snooze of twenty minutes or so, waking up now and 
then to give my lever a pat in the required direction when he did 
not get the machine level quickly enough after turning the ma- 
chine splendidly sometimes. Then, when it was just about a 
quarter of an hour before dinner-time, he took out his lever, and 
I brought the machine down in the most gorgeous spiral I have 
ever done. Absolutely vertical bank on. M. was very amusing 
afterward. "Quite a good spiral, that," he said patronizingly to 
E., "for a first attempt." 

I was up again this morning for two and a half hours with E. 
The weather was hopeless; our altitude was often under 2,000 feet 
by the lines. To relieve the monotony E. flew me for about half 
an hour while I observed— the clouds and mist ! Finally, we got 
up a bit higher, and just before it was time to come home did a 
beautiful spiral quite close to the lines for the benefit of a few 
thousand Tommies and Huns in the trenches— just to show there 
was no ill-feeling, you know. 

I had just got my letters to-day when I was sent up, so I had to 
take them with me, and read them in the air on the way to the lines. 

I took up some chocolate the other day when I was on patrol, 
and gave some to the observer in the air, and we munched away 
for some time. He was a sergeant, one of the ancient observers, 
and he did not know that when I waggled the joy-stick — thus 
shaking the 'bus from side to side — I wanted him to turn round. 
I waggled away for about five minutes, and he sat there quite 
contentedly, thinking to himself (as he afterward told me) that 
it was rather a bumpy day. Then I started switch-backing and 
he endured that, though on what theory I don't know. Finally 



174 WAR READINGS 

I nearly had to loop him to persuade him to turn round, and when 
he did so he had a grin on his face and a sort of " Think-you-can- 
frighten-me-with-your-stunts-you-giddy-kipper" look as well. 

Fokker, a German aeroplane. Archie, abbreviation for Archibald, term applied 
to German anti-aircraft guns. Hangar, the station for an aeroplane within the 
aerodrome, the field that contains the hangars. Ailerops, the small wing-tips 
that maintain the balance of the aeroplane. Nacelle refers to the inside of the 
body of the airplane where pilot or observer sit, while fuselage means the outside 
body of the machine. Dual controls, two sets of controls for two-passenger 
machines. Volplane, to swoop down at a steep angle. 



TALES OF THE BRITISH AIR SERVICE ^ 

WILLIAM A. BISHOP 

Major Bishop, of Great Britain's Royal Flying Corps, was at the time 
this story was written the only Uving person who had won the three 
distinctions of the Victoria Cross, the Distinguished Service Order (twice 
bestowed), and the Military Cross. Although only 23 years of age, up to 
January, 1918, he had brought down 47 German machines in 110 a,ir 
battles. Captain Albert Ball, mentioned in this selection, was only 19 
years of age when killed, yet he had long held the record among British 
aviators, the official count of machines destroyed by him being 43. Major 
Bishop then not only outranked in air achievements every other member of 
the Royal Flying Corps, but held the record for all the Allied armies since 
the death of Captain Guynemer, of the French Aviation Service. In the 
terms of the airman he was the premier ace of the Royal Flying Corps. 

Some of the exploits of the late Captain Ball, V. C, were most 
exciting. He was especially noted for getting himself into the 
tightest corners and then, in an instant, turning defeat into vic- 
tory and coming out of the fight victorious. 

Upon one occasion in the early part of his career as a fighter 
he had gone some twenty miles across the enemy lines, vainly 
looking for some one to fight with. Finally he saw two enemy 
machines flying together. Without hesitation he flew straight 
at these two and engaged them in a fight which lasted over ten 
minutes, at the end of which time he found that he had run out of 
ammunition. The two enemy machines had also had enough of 

I From The National Geographic Magazine, January, 1918. Copyright, by The 
National Geographic Society. Used by permission. 



TALES OF THE BRITISH AIR SERVICE 175 

It by now and seized their first opportunity to escape, diving down 
to the ground. 

Ball was much disgusted at this and emptied six rounds from 
his revolver at the two diving machines. He then seized a piece 
of paper and a pencil which he had with him and wrote out a 
challenge for the same two machines to meet him at the same 
spot the next day. 

At the appointed time Ball turned up on the spot and a few 
minutes later the same two enemy machines approached him from 
the east. He flew toward them to engage in a fight, but at that 
moment three more of the enemy came down from the sky and 
attacked him. It was a carefully laid trap and he had fallen into 
it without even suspecting that there was one. 

The three enemy machines that had attacked him from behind 
were of the latest fighting type and were all flown by expert men. 

At every turn Ball, who was underneath and was thus at a slight 
disadvantage, found himself outmanoeuvred. Turn and twist as 
he would, he always found one of the enemy on top of him and 
another just ready to catch him if he turned the other way. Several 
times bullets passed within inches of him. Finally deciding to 
escape, he realized that he must do something extraordinary; so 
he dived toward the ground and, picking out a large field, glided 
into it and landed. 

The three enemy machines at once suspected that he had been 
shot and forced to land, and they all glided down and landed, 
either in the same field with him or the adjoining one. Then, 
jumping out of their machines, they ran over to Captain Ball. 
However, Ball, who had carefully foreseen exactly what would 
happen, had kept his engine running slowly while he was on the 
ground, and the moment he saw the others come out of their ma- 
chines he tore off again and flew away from them. 

By the time the first of the Huns had been able to get off 'the 
ground. Ball was over half a mile away and had made good his 
escape. The risk he took in landing this way was very great, as 
his engine might have stopped when he landed, in which case 



176 WAR READINGS 

there would have been no way of starting it again and escaping. 

On another occasion, about six months later, he had an experi- 
ence just as thrilling as the one above. He had chased an enemy 
machine for ten miles behind its lines and, on turning to come 
home, found himself cut off by several groups of the enemy. Pick- 
ing out a group just in front of him, and the smallest group which 
was trying to cut him off, he decided to fly straight at the machines 
and through them. There were four in the party, and as he flew 
toward them they all opened fire at him, while he did the same 
at them. 

The leader of the enemy patrol did not like it, however, and 
swerved to one side, just as Ball was hoping he would. Two of 
his followers did the same thing, perhaps in the hope that they 
would be able to catch Ball from the flank; but it was all according 
to Ball's plan and he carried on straight at the last man, who, he 
hoped, would also turn. 

At a speed of 250 miles^ an hour they approached, both firing 
two machine-guns at each other. It looked as if they were going 
to go into each other. Both men seemed determined that they 
would not swerve the slightest. Ball told me later that he was 
quite sure in his own mind that the man intended ramming him 
and thus causing death to them both. 

Many bullets struck Ball's machine, one hitting an oil-pipe, 
allowing the oil to leak and splash over him. His face was covered 
with it and some of it got into his eyes and he could hardly see. 
He closed his eyes and flew straight, firing as he went, expecting 
every second to hear the awful crash when they would strike. 
The other man, however, when only about twenty yards away, 
suddenly dived down and went straight to earth, where Ball saw 
him crash into the ground. 

Upon looking back upon the encounter Ball came to the con- 
clusion that he must have killed his adversary with an early shot 
and the way in which the German fell back in his seat must have 
just held the machine in a level position for the length of time while 
1 They were each moving at 125 miles per hour. 



TALES OF THE BRITISH AIR SERVICE 177 

he came on straight at him. Ball thought the man's fingers must 
have remained on the triggers of his guns. 

Ball managed to escape the remainder of the crowd, but a little 
later he had a most terrifying experience. While crossing the lines 
he had to pass over a very intense battle raging on the ground. 
Shells were dropping everywhere and he knew that in flying over 
this ground he was passing through air which was literally full of 
shells in their flight. 

Suddenly, with an awful sound, a shell struck his machine about 
two feet behind where he sat, passing clean through the body 
of the machine without exploding. The unfortunate part of it 
was that in passing through the machine it practically severed 
all his control wires, which meant that all the mechanism which 
directed the machine — except a few strands of the cable — had 
been destroyed. 

His machine immediately went into a spinning nose-dive and 
fell, out of control. Simply by means of the most delicate han- 
dling and great skill he managed, when only 2,000 feet from the 
ground, to regain control of his machine and headed it in the 
direction of home. Any ordinary pilot would have been content 
to come down and land in the first field; but not so Ball. His 
aerodrome was still twenty miles away; yet he flew this damaged 
machine all the way to it and landed there without further damage. 

His flight home must have been a terrible experience, as the 
shell in passing through his machine had strained it and damaged 
it tremendously, and at any moment the whole machine might 
have collapsed and fallen in pieces; yet Ball, with his customary 
coolness and courage, brought it back home to his aerodrome 
and landed. Twenty minutes later he was in another machine 
and on his way to the lines to look for another fight. 



HIGH ADVENTURE! 

JAMES NORMAN HALL 

This experience of an airman is by the author of "Kitchener's Mob," 
parts of which are found elsewhere in this book. He is an American who 
first enhsted in the British army and later in the French air service. He 
wrote the part of "High Adventure," from which this selection is taken, 
before he was wounded severely in a fight with seven enemy planes. He 
has since recovered from his woimd, participated in other air battles, and 
in May, 1918, fell within the German lines and was made a prisoner. 

The winter of 1916-17 was the most prolonged and bitter 
that France has known in many years. It was a trying period to 
the Httle group of Americans assembled at the Ecole Militaire 
d'Aviation,^ eager as they were to complete their training, and to 
be ready, when spring should come, to share in the great offensive, 
which they knew would then take place on the Western front. 
Aviation is a waiting game at the best of seasons. In winter it 
is a series of seemingly endless delays. Day after day, the plain 
on the high plateau overlooking the city of V. was storm-swept, 
a forlorn and desolate place as we looked at it from our windows, 
watching the flocks of crows as they beat up against the wind, or 
as they turned, and were swept with it, over our barracks, crying 
and calling derisively to us as they passed. 

" Birdmen do you call yourselves ? " they seemed to say. " Then 
come up; the weather's fine!" 

Well they knew that we were impostors, fair-weather fliers, 
who dared not accept their challenge. 

Sometimes the winds would die away and the thick clouds 
lift, and we would go joyously to work on a morning of crisp, 
bright winter weather. Then we had moments of glorious revenge 
upon the crows. They would watch us from afar, holding noisy 
indignation meetings in a row of weather-beaten trees at the far 
side of the field. And when some inexperienced pilote lost control 

1 Prom The Atlantic Monthly, November, 1917. Copyright, by The Atlantic 
Monthly Co. Used by permission. 
- Military Aviation School. 

178 



HIGH ADVENTURE 179 

of his machine and came crashing to earth, they would take the 
air in a body, circhng over the wreckage, cawing and jeering with 
the most evident dehght. "The Oriental Wrecking Company," 
as the Annamites^ were called, were on the scene almost as quickly 
as our enemies the crows. They were a familiar sight on every 
working-day, chattering together in their high-pitched gutturals, 
as they hauled away the wrecked machines. They appeared to 
side with the birds, and must have thought us the most absurd of 
men, making wings for ourselves, and always coming to grief 
when we tried to use them. 

At last came the event which really marked the beginning of 
our careers as airmen: the first tour de piste, the first flight round 
the aerodrome. We had talked of this for weeks, but when at 
last the day for it came our enthusiasm had waned. We were 
like little birds, eager to try our wings and yet afraid to make 
the start. 

Now, this first tour de piste was always the occasion for a gather- 
ing of all the classes on the part of the Americans, and there was 
the usual large assembly when word was passed along that Drew 
and I were going to "bump along the ceiling." The beginners 
were present to shiver in anticipation of their own forthcoming 
trials, and the more advanced pilotes, who had already taken the 
leap, to offer the usual gratuitous advice. 

"Now remember, son! Don't try to pull any big league stuff. 
Not too much rudder on the turns. Remember how that French- 
man piled up on the Farman hangars when he tried to bank the 
corners." 

" You'll find it pretty rotten when you go over the woods. The 
air-currents there are something scandalous!" 

" Believe me, it's a lot worse over the fort. Rough ? Oh, la la ! " 

"And that's where you have to cut your motor and dive, if 
you're going to make a landing without hanging up in the tele- 
phone wires." 

"When you do come down, don't be afraid to stick her nose 
I Men from French protectorate of Annam, Indo-China. 



180 WAR READINGS 

forward. Scare the life out of you, that drop will, but you may as 
well get used to it in the beginning." 

"If you do spill, make it a good one. There hasn't been a 
decent smash-up to-day." 

These were the usual comforting assurances. They did not 
frighten us much, although there was just enough truth in the 
warnings to make us uneasy. We took our hazing as well as we 
could inwardly, and, of course, with imperturbable calm outwardly; 
but, to make a confession, I was somewhat reluctant to hear the 
peremptory, businesslike " Allez ! en route!" ^ of our moniteur. 

When it came, I taxied across to the other side of the field, 
turned into the wind, and came racing back, full motor. It seemed 
a thing of tremendous power, that little forty-five horse-power 
Anzani. The roar of it struck awe into my soul. 

"I'm in for it !" I thought, and gripped my controls in no very 
professional manner. Then, when I had gathered full ground 
speed, I eased her off gently, and up we went, over the class and 
the assembled visitors, above the hangars, the lake, the forest, 
until, at the half-way point, my altimeter registered 1,000 feet. 
Out of the corner of my eyes I saw all the beautiful countryside 
spread out beneath me, but I was far too busily occupied to take 
in the prospect. I was watching my wings, nervously, in order 
to anticipate and counteract the slightest pitch of the machine. 
But nothing happened, and I soon realized that this first grand 
tour was not going to be nearly so terrifying as we had been led 
to believe. I began to enjoy it. I even looked down over the 
side of the fuselage, although it was a very hasty glance. 

All the time I was thinking of the rapidly approaching moment 
when I should have to come down. I knew well enough how the 
descent was to be made. It was very simple. I had only to shut 
off my motor, push forward with my "broomstick" — the control 
connected with the elevating planes — and then wait and redress 
gradually, beginning at from six to eight metres from the ground, 
The descent would be exciting, a little more rapid than Shoot- 
> " Come ! — on the way." 



A FLIGHT OVER THE FRENCH FRONT 181 

ing the Chutes. Only one could not safely hold onto the sides of 
the car and await the splash. That sort of thing had sometimes 
been done in aeroplanes, by overexcited young pilotes. The 
results were disastrous, without exception. 

The moment for the decision came. I was above the fort, other- 
wise I should not have known when to dive. At first the sensa- 
tion was, I imagine, exactly that of falling, feet foremost; but 
after pulling back slightly on the controls, I felt the machine answer 
to them, and the uncomfortable feeling passed. I brought up 
on the ground in the usual bumpy manner of the beginner. Noth- 
ing gave way, however, so this did not spoil the fine rapture of a 
rare moment. It was shared — at least it was pleasant to think 
so — by my old Annamite friend who stood by his flag nodding his 
head at me. He said, " Beaucoup bon," ^ showing his polished 
black teeth in an approving grin. I forgot for the moment that 
"Beaucoup bon" was his enigmatical comment upon all occasions, 
and that he would have grinned just as broadly had he been 
dragging me out from a mass of wreckage. For I was very happy. 
It was precisely the same quality of happiness which I knew upon 
the occasion I swam, for the first time, to the centre of the old 
swimming-hole at home, yelled, "So deep, kids !" to the watchers 
on shore, and then let down until my feet touched the bottom of 
that appalling seven-foot abyss. 



A CIVILIAN'S WILD FLIGHT OVER THE FRENCH 

FRONT 2 

G. H. PERRIS 

With the French Armies, Jan. 11, 1918. — This is the twenty- 
sixth consecutive day of frost and snow. The front is ice-bound. 
In the trenches every man not needed at the loopholes is under 
cover. Behind them all movements are laborious, if not painful. 

1 "Very good." 

2 From The New York Times. Used by permission. 



182 WAR READINGS 

The short-lived sun has gone under gray masses of cloud. The 
countryside sleeps, a forlorn fairy-land swept by a cutting wind, 
apparently deserted and silent save for an occasional booming 
note from hidden guns. 

But under this dead surface the multitudinous life of the armies 
throbs in powerful currents, and in a certain aviation camp, be- 
tween the Oise and the Aisne, I seem to touch its very pulse. 

The airmen never hibernate. In time the air service is the new- 
est arm of war and in personnel the youngest, because the best 
physique is rarely equal to the strain of this work after the thirtieth 
year. This youthfulness flourishes also in the peculiar rapidity 
of technical development and daring initiative. 

Military aviation is the child of this war. There were few air- 
men in the battle of the Marne, and they did service, then invalua- 
ble but now of infantile simplicity. They reported promptly to 
Gallieni von Kluck's divergence from Paris and to Foch the first 
signs of von Below's retreat. If a stiff wind blew their rickety ma- 
chines were disabled. The flesh was willing, but the material was 
weak. In three years the difference is as great as that between 
Columbus's caravel and the latest ocean liner. In the bitter cold 
and stormy skies of December French chasers brought down seven- 
ty-six enemy machines, many long-distance bombarding expedi- 
tions were made, hydroplanes kept unceasing watch along the 
coast, and on the land front all the work of patrol and observation 
went on as usual. 

We drift into such revolutions without any clear idea of their 
significance. The pen, indeed, can do little with things so rich 
and momentous, in which the vocabulary even is not fixed. I 
learned more in a half-hour's experience than in years of reading. 

On an Observation Flight. — It was not only idle curiosity, then, 
that made me ask for a flight over the front. The French authori- 
ties were properly hesitant. After more than a year a favorable 

answer came, and I owe to the kindness of the officers of 

squadron a veritable voyage of discovery. 

Of course, there are planes and planes, as there are ships and 



A FLIGHT OVER THE FRENCH FRONT 183 

ships. There are good old buses that go Hke trains, and there 
are frisky torpedo-boats of the air whose master quahties are 
speed and ease of manoeuvre. This last was the kind I came to 
know — the observation-biplane of a recent model that does 120 
miles an hour. 

Clad in overalls, helmet, and goggles, I climbed into the observ- 
er's seat behind the pilot. A jumpy run over the hard ground, 
and, swish, we were off on a sharp upward slant. Several minutes 
of sheer funk followed, of which I remember nothing, having shut 
my eyes and clung desperately to the sides of my well, just con- 
scious enough to keep from touching the duplicate controls and 
v/ireless keyboard. A sound warning not to look overboard till 
we were pretty well up, perhaps, saved me from any feehng of 
physical sickness. The first terror lightened a little, and we 
must have risen 500 yards when I dared to take a sidewise glance 
into the gulf on either hand. 

We were mounting steadily and must have been going at a 
great rate, but the icy hammering of the wind on one's face was 
the only indication of it. 

Fringes of woodland, tiny roofs, the course of the Oise, and then 
of the Oise-Aisne Canal, stood out faintly against the white fields; 
but they always seemed to me the same trees, streams, and houses. 
Shapes and perspectives, every appearance, was twisted out of 
recognition. 

Strangest of all was the lack of any sensation of speed. We 
were going now as fast as the fastest express-train, yet it was only 
when I plucked up nerve to examine the abyss more closely that 
any outward mark of our movement could be detected, and then 
it was scarcely perceptible. 

As I was reconciling myself to this weird condition another of 
the space values of Mother Earth was rudely upset. A slight 
lurch, and instantly the plain rose up into a precipice close beside 
us. We appeared to be rushing headlong into this mountainside 
of checkered black and, white, when with equal rapidity it settled 
back to its former flatness. 



184 WAR READINGS 

Horrible Sensation of " Banking." — For a long moment of horrible 
alarm the senses cried out that my friend, the Brigadier, had gone 
mad, or else the world was breaking up. Then reason insisted 
that he was turning to the right, the plane banking over like 
a toboggan as it negotiated a sharp corner and then resumed its 
balance. The sensation was not of any movement of the machine, 
but of a displacement of the earth, which should have been nearly 
a mile below, but was threatening to fall on us from above. 

From this point I began to get accustomed to the state of sus- 
pended motion of an invisible sea and, half assured that even if 
accident remained hostile, all laws favored us, looked down more 
intently upon our cold planet. 

I have seen nothing so strange. The landscape refused all 
familiarity, not only by its distance and extent, but also by the 
complete change of our accustomed spacial values. A surface 
looked at from the apex of its cone is curiously different from the 
same surface looked at from a level. A forest seen from the air 
is not a thick, dark mass of trunks, surrounded by white fields 
and blue sky, but a myriad tiny points of shade, carried widely 
upon a snow-sheet and offering little if any cover against the 
aviator's prying eyes. A village or town is an inconsiderable 
group of roofs with abundant space between, giving no impres- 
sion corresponding to our sense of solid. The height or breadth 
of buildings and all the lesser hills have disappeared. The earth 
is no better than a map without a human word inscribed upon it. 

Sheets and streams of water, railways and roads are, however, 
very plainly marked, and shadows take prodigious importance. 
It is the shadow and not the substance of trenches and wire 
that appears in the airman's photographs. The narrow course 
of the trenches should have been visible, though there was no 
sun as we passed over the lines, but for me the front might have 
been fifty miles away. 

It is a silly confession to have to make, but in the excitement of 
novel feelings I completely forgot to use my field-glasses. Assur- 
edly there were other machines in the air, but I saw none, nor 



A FLIGHT OVER THE FRENCH FRONT 185 

any bubbles of shrapnel smoke. Down below two armies lay con- 
cealed, and not a man showed himself. The hammering of the 
wind upon forehead and cheeks would in any case have shut out 
all other sounds. 

Lost All Thought of War. — It is a lame conclusion, perhaps, to 
report of a flight over the front, but the fact is that as the snowy 
plain swept up to meet us in our dive to the finish of a forty or 
fifty mile voyage, as the green hangars assumed their real bulk and 
the mechanics grew from dwarfs to full human stature, I had for- 
gotten the war in thought of something greater even than that 
vast issue. They showed me in the photograph-room and map 
bureau of the camp what I ought to have seen, and much more — 
a brief account of nearly every German trench and battery in the 
sector. 

I have no ambition to try again the role of aerial observer. 
The new world up there belongs to our splendid youth. Even for 
the greatest of air pilots — say the Captains — there comes a moment 
when a little bell rings in the fearless heart, and by some trivial 
failing they know that they must fly no more; but look into the 
face of one of these lads, ask him whether he ever felt afraid, and 
weigh his shy answer, " I don't remember," and you will feel with 
me that man's powers of body and mind are still and ever grow- 
ing. The Wrights and Santos Dumonts, Bleriots, Lathams, and 
Farmans needed better nerves and brains than the famous dis- 
coverers of old time. 

Foch: pronounce Fosh. Kluck and Below, German generals. "The Wrights, 
Santos Dumonts," etc., aeroplane inventors. 



AMBULANCE NO. 10 ^ 

LESLIE BUSWELL 

The book from which this selection is taken is composed of letters writ- 
ten by one of the many young Americans who have done service for France 
as ambulance-drivers. These letters were written home during the sum- 
mer of 1915. They give some idea of the work that Americans were do- 
ing before the United States entered the war. 

For many years before the war there existed at Neuilly-sur- 
Seine, a suburb of Paris, a semiphilanthropic institution supported 
by Americans and known as the American Hospital. At the out- 
break of the war this institution instantly and naturally became the 
rallying-point for Americans who loved France and wanted to 
help care for her wounded soldiers. Within a few weeks it was 
evident, however, that larger quarters must be found. A splendid 
new school-building, which was rapidly nearing completion in 
the neighborhood, was rented; its large, well-lighted, and well- 
ventilated rooms were transformed into hospital wards, operating- 
rooms, dormitories, and offices; a multitude of doctors, surgeons, 
and nurses were brought over from the United States; and thus 
the American Ambulance Hospital in the Lycee Pasteur, with 
accommodations for more than six hundred wounded soldiers, 
came into being. Soon the generosity of another American friend 
of France made possible a second American Ambulance Hospital, 
and the venerable College of Juilly, located about thirty miles 
east of Paris, was steam-fitted, electric-lighted, and plumbed, and 
made over into a hospital for about two hundred additional 
wounded, with distinguished American surgeons in charge. 

From the outset it was clear that the saving of soldiers' lives 
depended quite as much upon the quick transportation of the 
wounded as upon their surgical treatment, and in September, 
1914, when the battle-front surged close to Paris, a dozen auto- 
mobiles given by Americans, hastily extemporized into ambu- 
lances, and driven by American volunteers, ran back and forth 

1 Prom "Ambulance No. 10." Copyright, 1916, by The Houghton MiflBUta Co. 
Used by special arrangement with the publishers. 

186 



AMBULANCE NO. 10 187 

night and day between the western end of the Marne Valley and 
Paris. This was the beginning of the American Ambulance Field 
Service with which the following letters have to do. During the 
autumn and winter that followed many more cars were, given and 
many more young Americans volunteered, and when the battle- 
front retired from the vicinity of Paris, sections of motor-ambu- 
lances were detached from the hospitals at Neuilly and Juilly and 
became more or less independent units attached to the several 
French armies, serving the dressing-stations and army hospitals 
within the army zone. To-day more than a hundred such am- 
bulances given and driven by American friends of France are 
carrying wounded French soldiers along the very fighting-front in 
Belgium and France. 

On arriving at Nancy I was met by Salisbury, our Section 
leader, and after a very good meal in the most beautiful little town 
you could hope to see (and where the Kaiser and ten thousand 
troops in dress parade were waiting on a hill close by to enter in 
state last October), we started by motor for Pont-a-Mousson. 
Some fifteen kilometres farther on, our lights were put out and 
we then entered the region under shell-fire. It was a funny feel- 
ing listening to my conductor talking about how this shell and that 
shell hit here and there; and all along the route we passed torn- 
up trees, houses, and roads. At last we came to Pont-a-Mousson, 
a dear little village with about eight thousand inhabitants, and 
felt our way, so to speak, in the darkness and silence to the bar- 
racks which are now the Headquarters of the Ambulance. I 
found that there were about twenty cars and twenty-two men 
here, the latter all enthusiastic about their work and the help the 
Section were giving the French. The day before I arrived a 
shell hit the house next door, and on first sight one would think 
it was the barracks itself which had been hit. These huge high- 
explosive shells are sent into the town every two or three days, 
and everywhere one sees masses of brick and stone, all that remains 
of houses struck. The Germans have bombarded the town over 
one hundred and ten times. 



188 WAR READINGS 

After being introduced to the "boys," I went to my room which 
is some one hundred and sixty metres up the road — nearer the 
trenches, but safer for all that. Here I found I was to share the 
house with another man, Schroeder by name, a Hollander, and 
a very nice fellow, who has already lost one brother and has had 
another wounded in the French army. My bedroom is a quite 
typical French peasant room, very comfortable, and I felt grate- 
ful to know that I was to have a bed and not straw to sleep on. 
I went to sleep there my first night in comparative quietness, only 
hearing now and then a crack of a musket which in peace-time one 
would think was merely a back-fire of some motor. In the morn- 
ing I woke at six and went to breakfast in our barracks, which is 
always served at seven o'clock. Walking out of my front door, I 
came into the main street. To the left is the way to the town and 
the barracks — to the right the road goes straight on, an avenue of 
trees. My friend or housemate pointed out, about five hundred 
metres away, what looked like a fallen tree across the road. Im- 
agine my feelings when he told me that they were the French 
trenches. To the right and left of this avenue are hills and on the 
left runs the River Moselle. On the ridge of hills on the right 
one sees a brown line — these are the German trenches — and walk- 
ing down the road to breakfast, one gets the knowledge that a first- 
class rifle-shot could pick one off. After breakfast I was asked by 
one of the men, Roeder, if I would like to look about the place, and 
I jumped at the invitation. We got into a Ford ambulance (no 
one can realize the excellence of the Ford for this purpose until 
he has seen what they can do), and we started on a tour. 

Pont-a-Mousson was in the hands of the Germans for five days 
and our Headquarters were the German Officers' Headquarters. 
The French partially blew up the bridge which crosses the Moselle 
at this most picturesque point, and for the last five days the Ger- 
mans have been bombarding it, attempting in their turn to destroy 
it; many of the houses round it seem to have been hit, and the 
two places where shells have taken most effect are on the bridge 
the French have repaired with wood. The boys tell me it is a 



AMBULANCE NO. 10 189 

wonderful sight to see the water rising hke a geyser when the shells 
hit in the river. To show how careless the few remaining peasants 
are, directly the Germans have "apparently" ceased firing, they 
get into boats to pick up the fish killed in hundreds by the con- 
cussion. We left the river (where we could be clearly seen by the 
Germans intrenched some thousand metres away), and I confess 
I sighed in relief — for it is difficult to accustom one's self imme- 
diately to the possibility of receiving a bullet in one's head or a 
shell in one's stomach. We then went through the town, every- 
where being told stories of how, on such and such a day last week, 
five men were killed there and three wounded here, etc. All the 
houses are left open, and one can walk into any doorway that looks 
interesting and do a tour of inspection. 

On the other side of the hill on our right extended the famous 
Bois-le-Pretre; but it is no longer a wood — it is just a wilderness 
with a few brown stumps sticking up. "Would you like to go 
into the Bois ?" I was asked. I felt I had been in as much danger 
as I was likely to get into, so I said yes, and we turned to the left 
and mounted a steep hill and entered it. Here the birds were sing- 
ing and all was green and beautiful (it was a part where the artil- 
tery had not been), but one could see trench after trench deserted. 
Here was an officers' cemetery, a terribly sad sight, six hundred 
officers' graves. Close by were also the graves of eighteen hundred 
soldiers. The little cemetery was quite impressive on the side of 
this lovely green hill with the great trees all around and the little 
plain wood crosses at each grave. 

Sunday. — I was suddenly interrupted by being called to fetch 
the wounded from X. and I am just back. 

My roommate offered to come with me to get the contagious 
case (which proved fortunately to be only measles), and we started 
off on what I thought then one of the most amazing trips of my 
life. Turning suddenly to the left from the main road, I drOve 
our little Ford three kilometres along the road, which was in full 
view of the Germans and which had been the death-place of many 
passers-by, then turning left again we drove slowly to a village so 



190 WAR READINGS 

full of soldiers that it seemed impossible so many could even find 
shelter — a quick turn to the right — up, up, up — first speed — along 
a very narrow road with just room for the car. On both sides 
were stuck up cut tree-branches to make the Germans think there 
was no road. Up we went through another tiny hill village full 
of artillery, and on every side underground dugouts where they 
all live — trees blown down — branches stuck here and there to look 
like trees, and at last we reached the top. The water in the radi- 
ator was boiling, so we stopped, walked a bit in the most beautiful 
woods, and picked flowers and wild strawberries to the tune of 
birds and distant cannon. In this wood are heavy naval guns, 
but from where and how they were ever taken there is a puzzle. 
On we went through more woods until we were stopped by a sen- 
try, who directed us still further, and then I saw what was the most 
dream-like spectacle I ever beheld. 

The thick woods teemed with soldiers, and dotted through the 
forests were little huts, very low, where they live — thousands of 
them — pathways starting every twenty yards to some new wood 
village. We heard music, and on reaching our destination were 
invited to inspect these quaint habitations. We walked down a 
path past hut after hut, and then suddenly the wood opened out 
and we came to a kind of amphitheatre, and my friend and I were 
conducted to seats of honor, and we listened (after much handshak- 
ing and "Vive TAmerique," "Vive I'Angleterre," and "cama- 
rades," etc.) to a band of three, banjo, violin, and dulcimer (as I 
write a shell has just exploded near by. I jumped to see where 
— about two hundred yards away and the smoke is slowly clearing). 

We soon left our friends and took our contagious case to the sta- 
tion. After passing through wonderful valleys, hills, woods, and 
plains we returned home pretty tired — wondering how such atroci- 
ties could be taking place in such a perfect country. We go reg- 
ularly to X. to get our wounded, and for two out of the six 
kilometres we are exposed to German view and the whole of the 
way, of course, to shell-fire. On my first arrival at this little moun- 
tain village I was horrified to see two people lying dead in the road 



AMBULANCE NO. 10 191 

in huge pools of blood. Six German "ISO's" had been suddenly 
launched into the village, which is full of soldiers, and killed six 
soldiers and wounded some thirty. Three of the six shots had 
landed actually in the road itself. Two of our ambulances were in 
the street at the time and only chance spared them. I asked where 
the shells had struck, and my stretcher-bearer looked around for 
a moment and then pointed under my own car, and there was a 
hole some nine inches deep and two feet wide. It made me feel 
rather rotten, I must say. Only five minutes before and it might 
happen again at any moment. I took down three "couches," 
as the lying-down ones are called, and had to pass in front of a 
battery of "75's" which fired as I passed and gave me a shaky- 
knee feeling, I can tell you. Then backward and forward for two 
hours carrying more wounded, and to add to the excitement it 
rained so hard that I was thankful I had bought myself two uni- 
forms and could change. To-day is Sunday, and after a rather 
uncomfortable night in my clothes and a snatchy sleep, I have a 
day off. 

Yesterday I visited the trenches. I left here at four o'clock in 
the morning and started up the hill through a little village, rather 
like what the French call me, " Boose ville," which has been much 
bombarded, and then climbed up past disused trenches until we 
came to a sentry who directed us up to the company where a friend 
had promised to meet me. At last I found him and we started 
for the first line. I felt a little nervous and anxious, as I did not 
care to get killed sightseeing. My friend pointed out some bushes 
to me, and I had not noticed what he said, when on passing within 
a foot of another bush I found myself looking into the muzzle of a 
"75" gun. For some distance every inch seemed full of great 
guns and little guns, all so cleverly hidden that it would seem im- 
possible to know they were there. At last we came to a hill and 
were told by a sentry that we could not pass that way (for some 
reason or other — perhaps the position of a battery had just been 
changed), and we had either to go straight back or right across a 
field three hundred yards wide in full view of the Germans, three 



192 WAR READINGS 

hundred and fifty metres away. Said my friend: "Oh, I think 
they are eating now; let's risk it. They never fire while food is 
about." So somewhat against human nature I assented, and we 
slowly trudged across the open. I confess I was relieved when we 
reached the shady wood. Still mounting up, we passed hundreds 
and hundreds of blue-coated soldiers returning from their night 
vigil in the trenches, and then the noise and chatter of men and 
birds seemed to die away and I could hear little else but the crack 
of some twig one of us walked on, or the occasional bang of a 
rifle. This deadly silence — it was really quite awe-inspiring — 
continued as we passed silent groups of soldiers sipping coffee, tea, 
or soup. Then we took three or four steps down and henceforth 
walked in trenches — winding, curving, zigzag we went, no trench 
being more than five metres straight. 

The soldiers silently smiled, one heard whispered: " Americains." 
I saluted an officer, who smiled in return and showed me his room. 
Really it was quite comfortable. At last we came to a trench 
where every metre soldiers stood looking and waiting. It was the 
thin blue line that guards France's frontier for four hundred kilo- 
metres. The Germans are not pressing or attacking this particular 
place at present, and so the whole trench is so wonderfully neat 
and so clean and so uniform and almost comfortable, one began 
to wonder whether it was only a side-show in some exhibition. 
We walked very quietly along this trench for some two kilometres, 
and I suddenly discovered that in my interest I had allowed but 
forty-five minutes to get home if I was to be in time for duty at 
seven, so I made a hasty retreat and arrived back at barracks 
just in time. 

... I was on duty all night at X. and it was a great strain 
riding backward and forward in pitch darkness up and down the 
very steep and narrow road. I had to go to A. at about two 
o'clock this morning. This road is in full view of the Germans 
and much bombarded, and shrapnel burst close by, which reminded 
me that a lively moonlight night with trees and hills and valleys 
dimly shaping themselves can be other than romantic. 



AMBULANCE NO. 10 193 

It was a sad trip for me — a boy about nineteen had been hit in 
the chest and half his side had gone, they told me — and as we 
lifted him into the car, by a little brick house which was a mass of 
shell-holes, he raised his sad, tired eyes to mine and tried a brave 
smile. I went down the hill as carefully as I could and very slowly, 
but when I arrived at the hospital I found I had been driving a 
hearse and not an ambulance. It made me feel very badly — the 
memory of that faint smile which was to prove the last effort of 
some dearly loved youth. All the poor fellows look at us with the 
same expression of appreciation and thanks; and when they are 
unloaded it is a common thing to see a soldier, probably suffering 
the pain of the damned, make an effort to take the hand of the 
American helper. 

On Friday I again took down a German wounded — this time a 
German of the Kaiser's or Crown Prince's Bodyguard (the German 
Crown Prince is against us here). He was dying. Picture to 
yourself a fine, truly magnificent man — over six feet four — won- 
derful strength — with a hole through both lungs. He could not 
speak, and when I got to the hospital, I asked in German if he 
wanted anything. He just looked at me and then chokingly mur- 
mured: "Catholic." I asked a soldier to fetch the priest, and 
then two stretcher-bearers and the doctor, the priest, and I knelt 
down as he was given extreme unction. That is a little picture I 
shall never forget — all race hatred was forgotten. Romanist and 
Anglican, we were in that hour just all Catholics and a French 
priest was officiating for a dying German — a Boche — the race that 
has made Europe a living hell. I came back about seven o'clock 
at night to the hospital with more wounded and asked if he still 
lived. "Yes; would I care to see him?" I went in, and, although 
he breathed his last within an hour after, his look showed recogni- 
tion, and that man died, I am sure, with no hatred for France. 



WITH A FIELD AMBULANCE AT YPRESi 

WILLIAM BOYD 

This book is made up of letters written March 7 to August 15, 1915, 
or, as the author says himseK, it is "a diary written in kitchens and muddy 
dugouts." Doctor Boyd is a physician and a professor of pathology in the 
University of Manitoba. These letters illustrate ambulance work and 
also give some idea of the work of the actual fighters. The subjects 
treated in the letters selected are: "A Day with the Gunners," a descrip- 
tion of the city of Ypres, and the ambulance work in the Ypres region. 

April 22, 1915. 

A Day with the Gunners. — Yesterday I had a great day with 
the artillery. I had to go and visit my friend A., who is med- 
ical officer to the artillery brigade, in connection with some 

work. The headquarters of the brigade is at the little village of 
Kemmel, behind which rises Kemmel Hill, one of the great artillery 
observing stations in our line. It was a delightful afternoon, and 
the ride to Kemmel took me through far and away the most charm- 
ing bit of country that I have seen since coming out here; up hill 
and down dale, through woods where the young green of the larch 
was a constant delight to the eyes, with the birds singing in the 
branches, and wood anemones, celandines, violets, and wild- 
strawberry flowers on every side. There is just one little bit of 
hilly country like this; beyond in every direction stretches the 
great plain of Flanders. Let us be thankful that we hold the hills. 

After riding for an hour and a half I crossed a rise, and look- 
ing down into the hollow beyond, I saw the famous little village — 
it is a mere hamlet — basking in the sun below me. The first thing 
that struck me was the enormous number of telephone-wires that 
ran in all directions, crossing and recrossing till they formed a 
regular network, and looking strangely out of place in the midst 
of such rural surroundings. These were the various wires going 
from headquarters to the observation-stations and the batteries, 

1 From "With a Field Ambulance at Ypres," copyright, 1916, by George H. 
Doran Co. Used by permission. 

194 



WITH A FIELD AMBULANCE AT YPRES 195 

from the observation-stations to the batteries, and from both of 
these to the fire-trenches. 

The next thing that impressed me was the deserted appearance 
of the place. Although I knew that there were all sorts of troops 
about, hardly a soul was to be seen. The reason for this, as I dis- 
covered later, was that no one was allowed out unless on duty. 
The village is within range of rifle-fire. Further, you do not want 
a scouting Taube to see a crowd of men hanging around the various 
headquarters, and thus learn the position of these important build- 
ings. Result — a village apparently containing nothing but civil- 
ians, with the hot sun baking down from a cloudless sky, and a 
general air of peace and slumber over everything, save for the re- 
mains of half-demolished houses that met the eye in every direc- 
tion. Nothing but quiet and peace on this hot afternoon, but 
suddenly there was an explosion so close that my horse leaped into 
the air and I nearly fell into the ditch. At first I thought that a 
shell had burst just behind me, but it was only one of our own 
howitzers, so artfully concealed that I had not noticed it, being 
fired within a few yards of me. 

After a cup of tea at brigade headquarters, A. and I visited several 
of the batteries, and I had a chance of admiring the extraordi- 
narily cunning way in which the gun-positions were hidden both 
from the German lines and from the air. The dugouts where the 
officers and men on duty sleep are great places. You descend into 
a hole in the ground, and find yourself in a tiny chamber varying 
from three to five feet in height, roofed with stout timbers on top 
of which is a layer of sand-bags, with turf sods covering all. In 
many cases ivy was trained over the roof, cowslips and violets were 
planted at the door, and outside the mansion called "Fern Villa" 
hung two baskets filled with very charming ferns and moss. 

There is no doubt about it that the gunners have a much better 
time of it than the infantry. They certainly live in greater peace 
and comfort, and their particular method of slaughtering men is 
full of scientific interest. As we passed one of the batteries we 
found the men engaged in a game of football. Suddenly the 



196 WAR READINGS 

sharp sound of a whistle was heard. In a moment every man was 
a motionless statue. A hostile aeroplane was overhead, which 
would at once have detected the gun-position if the men had been 
moving about, whereas motionless they are invisible. We stood 
thus for a couple of minutes, and then two blasts were sounded 
on the whistle, and we were free to move on again. 

Our first visit was to one of the observation-stations on Kemmel 
Hill. The hill is covered with trees, and amongst the trees are 
numbers of dugouts, all used as observation-posts by the various 
batteries, but quite invisible until you are actually upon them, so 
cunningly are they concealed. We reached the one for which we 
were bound, and entered. Inside were a couple of chairs on which 
we sat in comfort, and by means of a telescope suspended from 
the roof surveyed through a narrow opening in the wall the net- 
work of trenches spread out in the valley at our feet. It was a 
glorious afternoon, ideal for observing, and there in front of us, 
spread out before our eyes, was a wonderful panorama. 

Immediately opposite, at a distance of a couple of miles, were 
the German trenches, and over those lines the shrapnel was burst- 
ing in little fleecy clouds. Away to the left lay Ypres, like some 
dream city in the warm light of the sinking sun, with delicate wisps 
of mist eddying around its shattered spires. In between was Hill 
60, where a furious bombardment was in progress. And yet with 
it all not a living creature nor moving thing could be seen for 
miles, and the whole countryside seemed as deserted as the Sahara. 
But it was a Sahara swarming with moles, moles who lived in bur- 
rows, who spied at one another through peep-holes, in whose 
minds there was but one thought — to slay — and who shouted at 
each other with deep-toned voices, which carried but one mes- 
sage — death. 

At first peace reigned in the dugout, as the battery for which 
it observed was not in action. Presently, however, the telephone- 
bell rang. It was an order from headquarters for our battery to 
open fire on a certain segment of the enemy's trenches. The 
battery commander turned to the telephone orderly with the com- 



WITH A FIELD AMBULANCE AT YPRES 197 

mand, "Battery prepare for action," which was transmitted to the 
battery over a mile away. At that moment the gunners were 
playing football, but in exactly two and a half minutes the mes- 
sage came up along the wire, "All ready, sir." There were a few 
moments of tense silence while the battery major sat with his 
eye glued to the telescope; then he muttered, "Number one — 
fire!" "Number one — fire!" repeated the telephonist. Dead 
silence, and then the word came up, "Number one fired, sir." 
Again absolute silence, and suddenly the shell rushed past over- 
head shouting its song of death, and later still the report of the 
gun came floating up from behind. 

May 20, 1915. 

A City of the Dead. — I have just paid a second visit to Ypres and 
the result is that I find it difficult to be articulate. At my first 
visit about a month ago the damage had been largely confined to 
the buildings in the Great Square, and those immediately sur- 
rounding it. The streets were full of people, shops were open in 
which I had been able to buy post-cards, ammunition-carts and 
motor-cars passed to and fro; everywhere there was a general feel- 
ing of liveliness and stir. 

But when I returned this afternoon it was like entering some 
city of the dead, some ancient Egyptian or Assyrian town which 
for centuries has lain under the sand, a place so full of the splendor 
of the past, but so forlorn and forsaken in the present, that an 
overwhelming sadness descends on all who enter its portals. It 
was indeed a City of the Dead. I passed along many of those 
ghastly streets before meeting a single soul, and then it was only 
a small patrol of military police. It was as if some mighty earth- 
quake had shaken the town in its grasp till it fell into nothingness, 
or as if rows of card-houses had been built, and some relentless 
hand had swept away the bottom stories, so that the entire super- 
structure had crumbled to the ground. In many places it was not 
a question of bare, shattered walls, but simply of confused piles 
of bricks and rubbish. Not a sound of any kind or description 



198 WAR READINGS 

was to be heard. In that city of desolation there was not a foot- 
fall on the pavement, not the rumble of a wheel on the road, not 
the sound of a voice, or the bark of a dog, or the bang of a door, 
nothing but the silence of death. " The cormorant and the bittern 
shall possess it, the owl also and the raven shall inhabit it, for he 
hath stretched out upon it the line of confusion and the stones of 
emptiness." 

June 10, 1915. 

This afternoon I had to visit the headquarters of a certain 
division close to Ypres. The headquarters are in a delightful 
seventeenth-century chateau, which looked a picture of perfect 
peace. A long shaded drive led up to the house, which stood in 
the midst of a lovely Old World garden. All round ran a moat 
in which floated yellow water-lilies. Everywhere there was the 
hum of bees, and here and there a gilded butterfly hovered over a 
flower. 

And yet it was not all peace. About fifty yards away there 
was a huge shell-hole, which had been made two days ago. A 
tree close to the house had been struck down the previous night. 
A sentry with fixed bayonet stood upon the bridge. In a flower- 
bed just in front of the main door were a number of dugouts, 
round which the roses bloomed, whilst through the trees gleamed 
those wonderful shattered spires of Ypres, with the afternoon sun 
streaming full upon them. 

My return journey took me within half a mile of Ypres, and I 
could not resist the temptation of paying another visit to the 
Great Square. Ypres is a place that one never tires of, and that, 
like some irresistible magnet, draws one back again and again. 
Hosts of tourists and globe-trotters will come to see it in future 
years, but it will never mean the same to them as to those who 
have seen it in its utter ruin, and have listened to its awful silence 
and to the shells bursting in its midst. And they, and only they, 
can ever only truly know Ypres the beautiful, Ypres the des- 
olate. 



WITH A FIELD AMBULANCE AT YPRES 199 

June 26, 1915. 

On the Ypres Salient. — We have moved at last, and are now at 
work on the Ypres sahent. It was a perfect evening when we left 
Neuve-Eglise. The shades of night were just beginning to fall; 
thin wisps of mist crept down the slopes into the valley ; the smoke 
from the chimneys rose in great, tall columns; not a breath of air 
stirred the thick foliage of the trees ; the occasional notes of a 
late blackbird alone disturbed the quiet of the evening. The men 
were all drawn up in a field, with the long line of wagons trailing 
out behind; and as we moved off to the sound of one of the great 
marching songs we knew that we were entering on a new phase of 
our military life, for we were exchanging the comparative quiet 
of the line at Neuve-Eglise for that perilous salient, the very name 
of which was enough to make the heart beat faster. 

As the night darkened the mist grew denser, and soon everything 
took on a most mysterious appearance. We passed little bivouacs 
in fields, and copses with fires burning brightly in front of them; 
camps consisting of rows of huts guarded by motionless figures, 
who would suddenly step into the middle of the road and give a 
sharp challenge; and wagons of ammunition column far in the 
rear up to the batteries a couple of miles behind the firing-line — 
all dim and mysterious in the uncertain light. It was after one 
when we reached the grass-field which was our destination, and 
laying ourselves down on the ground, we were soon wrapped in 
slumber. 

Last night work on the salient began. Our camp is some miles 
behind Ypres, so the plan is to take the stretcher-bearers up in 
motor-ambulances to a point on the other side of the town, and 
from there to start the work of collecting. Another officer and I 
were in charge of the party on the first night, and as I took my seat 
beside the driver of the first car, with the long column of twelve 
cars stringing out behind, I felt that we were probably in for an 
interesting evening. 

We soon struck the great road running from Poperinghe to Ypres, 
a road which is at present one of the most fascinating in the world. 



200 WAR READINGS 

I know of no highway which touches the imagination to anything 
Hke the same extent. For along that road must pass every per- 
son and every vehicle, all the infantry, the guns, the ammunition, 
the ration-carts, the motor-ambulances, the stretcher-bearers, 
bound for that famous but perilous salient which bends forward 
like some great bow in front of Ypres. In the gathering gloom 
we passed small bodies of infantry moving up, guns with ammuni- 
tion-limbers, supply-wagons, and one queer little vehicle like a 
farmer's trap drawn by a mule, and piled up with a varied assort- 
ment of articles which I could not recognize in the uncertain light, 
but which I suspect was furniture for officers' dugouts. And al- 
ways you had the feeling that ahead of you lay Ypres, and beyond 
was that terrible salient which was going to absorb all this hu- 
manity, but which would never give it all up again. 



AN AMBULANCE DRIVER IN FRANCE ^ 

CHARLES BERNARD NORDHOFF 

This selection is part of a letter written from France in 1917 by an 
American ambulance-driver in the French service. It describes something 
of the work of an ambulance-driver and some of the scenes near a battle- 
front. 

We were put on active duty at the front about the first of the 
year; in fact, I spent New Year's night in a dugout within pistol- 
shot of the Germans. 

. . . The next day was a typical one, so I will sketch it for you, 
to give an idea of how we live and what we do. When the party 
broke up it was late, so we turned in at once, in a deep, strong dug- 
out, which is safe against anything short of a direct hit by a very 
heavy shell. Once or twice, as I dropped off to sleep, I thought 
I heard furtive scamperings and gnawings, but all was quiet 
until just before daybreak when we were awakened by a terrify- 
ing scream from a small and inoffensive soldier who does clerical 

1 Prom The Atlantic Monthly, October, 1917. Copyright, by The Atlantic 
Monthly Co. Used by permission. 



AN AMBULANCE DRIVER IN FRANCE 201 

work in the office of the medecin chef. The poor fellow has a 
horror of rats, and usually sleeps with head and toes tightly bun- 
dled up. I flashed on my electric torch at the first scream and 
caught a glimpse of an enormous rat — fully the size of a small fox- 
terrier, I assure you ! — streaking it for his hole. The next minute 
I made out the unfortunate little soldier holding with both hands 
one ear, from which the nocturnal visitor had bitten a large mouth- 
ful, while he did a frantic dance around the floor. First came a 
titter, then a choked laugh, and finally the whole dugout howled 
with uncontrollable mirth, until the victim wound on his puttees 
and stalked out, much offended, to get some iodine for his ear. 
As we had laughed ourselves wide awake, I passed around some 
cigarettes while another fellow went down for a pot of coffee. 
Dressing consists of putting on one's shoes, puttees, and tunic — 
when I feel particularly sybaritic^ I take off my necktie at night. 

For once the sun came up in a clear blue sky and shone down 
frostily on a clear white world — a metre of snow on the ground, 
and pines like Christmas-trees. It was wonderfully still; far 
away on a hillside some one was chopping wood, and beyond the 
German lines I could hear a cock crow. After stopping to ask 
the telephonist if there were any calls, I took towel and soap and 
tooth-brush and walked to the watering-trough, where a stream 
of icy water runs constantly. As I strolled back, a thumping 
explosion came from the trenches — some enthusiast had tossed 
a grenade across as a New Year's greeting to the Boche. Re- 
taliatory thumps followed, and suddenly a machine-gun burst 
out with its abrupt stutter. Louder and louder grew the racket 
as gusts of firing swept up and down the lines, until a battery of 
75's took a hand from the hills half a mile behind us. Crack- 
whang-crack, they went, like the snapping of some enormous 
whip, and I could hear their shells whine viciously overhead. 

An orderly appeared shortly, to inform me that I must make 
ready to take out a few wounded. My load consisted of one poor 
fellow on a stretcher, still and invisible under his swathing of 

> Luxurioiis. 



202 WAR READINGS 

blankets, and two very lively chaps, each with a leg smashed, but 
able to sit up and talk at a great rate. We offered them stretchers, 
but they were refused with gay contempt. They hopped forward 
to their seats, smiling and nodding good-by to the stretcher-bearers. 
Despite my efforts, one of them bumped his wounded leg and a 
little involuntary gasp escaped him. " Qa -pique, mon vieux," he 
explained apologetically; "mais ga ne fait rien — allez!" ^ 

At the hospital, several miles back, there was the usual wait 
for papers, and as I handed cigarettes to my two plucky passen- 
gers, I explained that hospital bookkeeping was tiresome, but 
necessary. Suddenly the blood-stained blankets on the stretcher 
moved and a pale, but calm and quizzical face looked up into 
mine: "Oh, la la! C'est une guerre de papier; donnez-Tnoi une 
cigarette!" ^ You can't down men of this calibre. 

Just before bedtime another call came from a dressing-station 
at the extreme front. It was a thick night, snowing heavily, and 
black as ink, and I had to drive three kilometres, without light 
of any kind, over a narrow, winding road crowded with traffic of 
every description. How one does it I can scarcely say. War 
seems to consist in doing the impossible by a series of apparent 
miracles. Ears and eyes must be connected in some way. Driv- 
ing in pitchy blackness, straining every sense and calling every 
nerve to aid one's eyes, it seems that vision is impaired if ears are 
covered. ... I had an interesting day yesterday. The com- 
mandant asked for a car — he is the head medical officer — to visit 
some posts, and I was lucky enough to land the job. He is a charm- 
ing, cultivated man, and made it very pleasant for his chauffeur. 
We visited a number of posts, inspecting new dugout emergency 
hospitals, and vaccinating the stretcher-bearers against typhoid — 
a most amusing process, as these middle-aged fellows have the 
same horror of a doctor that a child has of a dentist. Reluctant 
was scarcely the word. 

Finally we left the car (at the invitation of the artillery officer) 

i"It stings, but that is nothing." 

> "It is a paper war; give me a cigarette.'! 



AN AMBULANCE DRIVER IN FRANCE 203 

and walked a couple of miles through the woods to see a new ob- 
servation-post. The last few hundred yards we made at a sneak- 
ing walk, talking only in whispers, till we came to a ladder that led 
up into the thick green of a pine-tree. One after another the 
officers went up, and at length the gunner beckoned me to climb. 
Hidden away like a bird's nest among the fragrant pine-needles, 
I found a tiny platform, where the officer handed me his binoculars 
and pointed to a four-inch hole in the leafy screen. There right 
below us were two inconspicuous lines of trenches, zigzagging 
across a quiet field, bounded by leafless pollard willows. It was 
incredible to think that hundreds of men stood in those ditches, 
ever on the alert. At a first glance the countryside looked strangely 
peaceful and unhampered — farmhouses here and there, neatly 
hedged fields, and farther back a village with a white church. 
Look closer, though, and you see that the houses are mere shells, 
with crumpling walls and shattered windows ; the fields are scarred 
and pitted with shell-holes, the village is ruined and lifeless, and 
the belfry of the church has collapsed. Above all, there is not an 
animal, not a sign of life in the fields or on the roads. Not a sound, 
except the distant hornet-buzzing of an aeroplane. 

On clear days there is a good deal of aeroplane activity in our 
section, and one never tires of watching them. The German 
machines do not bomb us in this district, for some reason un- 
known to me, but they try to reconnoitre and observe for artillery- 
fire. It is perfectly obvious, however, that the French have the 
mastery of the air, by virtue of their skilful and courageous pilots 
and superb fighting-machines, and their superior skill in anti-air- 
craft fire. To watch a plane at an altitude of, say, nine thousand 
feet under shrapnel-fire, one would think the pilot was playing with 
death; but in reality his occupation is not so tremendously risky. 

Consider these factors: he is a mile and a half to two miles 
from the battery shooting at him, he presents a tiny mark, and 
his speed is from eighty to one hundred and twenty-five miles per 
hour. Above all, he can twist and turn or change his altitude at 
will. The gunner must calculate his altitude and rate of speed. 



204 WAR READINGS 

and after the lanyard is pulled considerable time elapses before 
the shell reaches its mark. Meanwhile, the aviator has probably 
come down or risen or changed his course. It is like trying to 
shoot a twisting snipe with very slow-burning powder — the odds 
are all in favor of the snipe. 

Crack ! Whang ! Boom ! goes a battery near by, and three 
white puffs spring out suddenly around the distant machines, 
above, behind, below. Another battery speaks out, another and 
another till the sky is filled with downy balls of smoke. Suddenly 
the firing ceases, and the big German aero slants down swiftly 
toward its base. A sharper droning hits your ears. There, 
directly above us, a French fighting-machine is rushing at two hun- 
dred kilometres an hour to give battle to the little Fokker. Close 
together, wheeling and looping the loop to the rattle of their mi- 
trailleuses, they disappear into a cloud, and we can only guess the 
result. 



THE RED CROSS SPIRIT SPEAKS i 

JOHN FINLEY 



Wherever war, with its red woes. 
Or flood, or fire, or famine goes. 

There, too, go I; 
If earth in any quarter quakes 
Or pestilence its ravage makes, 

Thither I fly. 

II 

I kneel behind the soldier's trench, 
I walk 'mid shambles' smear and stench. 
The dead I mourn; 

1 From the Red Cross Magazine. Used by permission. 




Is? 



V^ 



Hi 

2 






< ^ 



THE RED CROSS SPIRIT SPEAKS 205 

I bear the stretcher and I bend 
O'er Fritz and Pierre and Jack to mend 
What shells have torn. 

Ill 

I go wherever men may dare, 
I go wherever woman's care 

And love can live. 
Wherever strength and skill can bring 
Surcease to human suffering, 

Or solace give. 

IV 

I helped upon Haldora's shore; 
With Hospitaller Knights I bore 

The first red cross; 
I was the Lady of the Lamp; 
I saw in Solferino's camp 

The crimson loss. 



I am your pennies and your pounds; 
I am your bodies on their rounds 

Of pain afar; 
I am you, doing what you would 
If you were only where you could — 

Your avatar. 

VI 

The cross which on my arm I wear. 
The flag which o'er my breast I bear. 

Is but the sign 
Of what you'd sacrifice for him 
Who suffers on the hellish rim 

Of War's red line. 



THE Y. M. C. A. AT THE FRONT ^ 

FRANCIS B. SAYRE 

In a certain corner of France to-day behind one small section of 
the long battle-line there are massed one million men. What 
that means no one can grasp unless he has moved in and out 
among the lines some evening when a push is on and watched the 
endless movement to and fro — has seen the mile after mile of muddy 
camp-ground swarming with soldiers preparing to go up into the 
trenches, or has ridden past the acres of supplies, guns, ammuni- 
tion, and horses. He must stand beside the road and watch the 
long line of traffic that goes on all night without cessation — the 
ceaseless columns, of soldiers in khaki with their steel helmets on 
their heads, their gas-masks and kits slung across their backs, 
and their rifles on their shoulders, swinging by with grave, set faces; 
the huge guns ponderously lumbering over the roughly paved 
street; the trains of clattering ammunition- wagons ; the great 
fleets of lorries loaded with unending supplies; the soup-kitchens; 
the empty ambulances — a great and endless stream of life surging 
forward to meet ruin and agony and death; and on the other 
side of the road, moving in the opposite direction, another endless 
stream of the broken and crushed, returning from the trenches — 
great trains of red-crossed motor-ambulances, carrying hundreds 
and hundreds of limp forms, wrapped in dirty, blood-soaked blan- 
kets; marching soldiers, dirty, dishevelled, and dog-tired, return- 
ing from the trenches ; disabled guns ; empty lorries ; broken wag- 
ons; and all that is worth bringing back after the touch of war. 
Or he must stand just back of the line at night and see the sky 
alight with the flashes of the great guns, not in one or two or three 
places, but the whole horizon aflame with that weird light as far 
as eye can reach; and he must feel the tremble of the very earth 
as the great guns hurl their tons of projectiles miles away into the 
enemy lines. It is vastness on a scale which the world never 

' From Harpers Magazine, February, 1918. Copyright, by Harper & Bros. 
Used by permission. 

206 



THE Y. M. C. A. AT THE FRONT 207 

imagined before — vastness such as multiplies a hundredfold the 
difficulties of any organization which undertakes to play a real 
part in the lives of those endless lines of soldiers, and to make its 
influence profoundly felt throughout that stupendous and gi- 
gantic array. 

Furthermore, the problem changes in its aspects with every move- 
ment of the soldiers. The methods of meeting the needs of troops 
in home training-camps will not suffice when the soldiers are in 
transport. Still other methods must be followed when the sol- 
diers reach the great base-camps in France, or as they move on 
"up the line" in railway transit, or dwell in quarters under shell- 
fire in the shattered towns or take their places on the firing-line. 
At each stage the problem requires a different solution. 

Never in all history has there been such an assemblage of the 
manhood of the world as that met on the plains of France to-day. 
In one of the great English base-camps are gathered countless 
thousands of men in khaki from every county of England; hordes of 
dark-skinned East-Indians in picturesque turbans and native uni- 
forms of khaki; men with tanned faces from the wind-swept plains 
of far-away Australia; Scotch Highlanders in their khaki kilts 
and gray tam-o'shanters ; New-Zealanders in their broad-brimmed 
felt hats; Canadians; West-Indians; South-Africans; men from 
every corner of the far-flung British Empire; gallant Belgians; 
Frenchmen in their blue uniforms; swarthy Arabs from northern 
Africa in their red fezzes; Chinese coolies from the Far East; 
German prisoners in their faded gray-green — men from every reach 
and quarter of the world. There has been nothing like it since the 
days of the old Crusades ; since the time of Peter the Hermit there 
has been never such an opportunity to minister to the congrega- 
tion of the world. In a vast tented city, covering the French plain 
for miles, this motley throng dwells for two or three weeks, receiv- 
ing the last word of instruction in bombing, in the use of gas- 
masks, on where and how most effectively to thrust the bayonet 
home. It is easy to imagine the thoughts of these men who are, 
most of them, thousands of miles from home in a strange land. 



208 WAR READINGS 

and stripped of all the comforts of life, and who are preparing them- 
selves to enter the most horrible experiences that this world can 
offer. Little wonder that they are thinking as they have never 
thought before, and wondering, amid the tragedy and the ruin 
all around, what, after all, in life and death is worth while and 
fundamental. Was there ever such an opportunity for a creative, 
healing work for the bodies and minds and souls of men? 

Into such a field the Y. M. C. A. has been privileged to enter. 
In the centre of each group of tents is erected a huge wooden struc- 
ture, known as a "hut," marked at each end with a bright-red 
triangle. The hut usually contains a "canteen-room," a large 
lecture-hall, and a number of smaller rooms for classes and group 
meetings. In this building and on the athletic field close by cen- 
tres the camp life of the troops. The canteen-room, a large 
lounging-place, fitted up with board benches and tables, decorated 
with gay bunting or bright pictures of home life, or possibly with 
wall-paintings done by some soldier decorator, is usually thronged 
with troops at every hour of the day when soldiers can be found 
off duty; for it is generally the only place in camp where soldiers 
can gather for recreational or social purposes. At one end, by the 
canteen counter, lined up to get their hot coffee, their buns, crackers, 
sweet chocolate, sandwiches, or the like, are crowds of soldiers; 
others are sitting at the tables, writing letters home on the sta- 
tionery furnished them; still others are at the other end of the 
room, gathered around the piano or victrola, playing the tunes 
they used to play at home; many are reading the home newspapers 
and magazines which are given out at the counter, or selecting 
books from the library, or matching their wits in friendly games of 
checkers. Outside on the athletic field, during such afternoons 
as they are not on duty, crowds of soldiers are delighting in games 
of baseball, hand-ball, or volley-ball, or watching a lively boxing 
or wrestling match, or taking part in intercompany field-contests. 
The silent psychological influence of the few Y-. M. C. A. secre- 
taries upon these masses of troops is a striking and interesting 
phenomenon. Because of their presence, there seems to prevail. 



THE Y. M. C. A. AT THE FRONT 209 

all unconsciously, a finer spirit, an atmosphere of good-fellowship, 
of clean sportsmanship, manliness at its best, that is no small 
factor in making up the tone and morale of the camp. In another 
part of the hut is a large lecture-room with a stage at one end; 
here are given in the evenings educational lectures, soldiers' min- 
strel shows, musical entertainments, cinema shows, patriotic 
addresses, and religious talks; and here, too, are generally held 
the Sunday religious services and meetings. Scarcely an evening 
goes by that does not see these halls packed to the doors. I have 
seen them so crowded, on the occasion of some stirring religious 
talk, that after the benches were all filled and the standing-room 
taken, soldiers kept crowding in through the windows to sit on 
the floor of the platform, and others remained standing outside 
to listen to the speaker through the windows. Surging in and out 
of the thirty huts in one of these base-camps there pass daily 
actually sixty thousand men of every race and creed; every night 
between ten and fifteen thousand men are listening to educational 
lectures and entertainments; on two nights every week a like 
number are crowding in to hear religious talks. . . . 

On the wall of what was formerly a French home of the well- 
to-do class we see painted a large red triangle. As we reach the 
door, several Y. M. C. A. secretaries welcome us and take us in- 
side. Here they have lived through all the furious shelling of the 
preceding months, serving hot coffee and caring for the needs of 
thousands of soldiers; and, strangely enough, this house, the 
ground-floor rooms of which have been crowded with troops night 
after night, is the only one in the vicinity which has not been 
partially wrecked by German shells. The upper stories, scarred 
with shrapnel and flying shell fragments, are not in use; the secre- 
taries are sleeping underground in what was once a wine-cellar, 
with the floor above them sand-bagged and bomb-proofed. They 
tell us, to our surprise, that the seemingly deserted city is filled 
with troops; we learn that under the city is a vast network of 
labyrinthine cellars and connecting passages, and in these under- 
ground mazes, with the rats and vermin, the soldiers are living. 



210 WAR READINGS 

No wonder that that Httle friendly Y. M. C. A. building is thronged 
with troops night after night. We hear that in some, way, I know 
not how, the secretaries managed to secure last week 15,000 fresh 
eggs which they supplied to the troops going up to the trenches; 
they are giving out ninety gallons of hot coffee every night. We 
ask what chance for rest they have, and are told that a few days 
before one of them spent his time unloading boxes of supplies 
from five in the afternoon until three the next morning, and turned 
in at last, only to be called out a few moments later by the arrival 
of fresh troops, whom he spent the rest of the morning serving. 
As we watch them at their work we begin to understand that a 
cup of hot coffee and a bit of cheery atmosphere may sometimes 
preach the most eloquent of sermons. 



PRINCETON, MAY, 1917 ^ 

ALFRED NOTES 

Here Freedom stood by slaughtered friend and foe, 
And, ere the wrath paled or that sunset died, 

Looked through the ages; then, with eyes aglow, 
Laid them to wait that future, side by side. 

-(Lines for a monument to the American and British soldiers of the Rev- 
olutionary War who fell on the Princeton battlefield and were buried 
in one grave.) 

Now lamp-lit gardens in the blue dusk shine 

Through dogwood, red and white; 
And round the gray quadrangle, line by line. 

The windows fill with light. 
Where Princeton calls to Magdalen, tower to tower. 

Twin Ian thorns of the law; 
And those cream-white magnolia boughs embower 

The halls of "Old Nassau." 

» By special permission of the author. 



PRINCETON, MAY, 1917 211 

The dark bronze tigers crouch on either side 

Where redcoats used to pass; 
And round the bird-loved house where Mercer died. 

And violets dusk the grass, 
By Stony Brook that ran so red of old. 

But sings of friendship now. 
To feed the old enemy's harvest fifty-fold 

The green earth takes the plow. 

Through this May night, if one great ghost should stray 

With deep remembering eyes. 
Where that old meadow of battle smiles away 

Its blood-stained memories, 
If Washington should walk, where friend and foe 

Sleep and forget the past. 
Be sure his unquenched heart would leap to know 

Their souls are linked at last. 

Be sure he walks, in shadowy buff and blue, 

Where those dim lilacs wave. 
He bends his head to bless, as dreams come true. 

The promise of that grave; 
Then, with a vaster hope than thought can scan. 

Touching his ancient sword. 
Prays for that mightier realm of God in man: 

"Hasten thy kingdom. Lord. 

"Land of our hope, land of the singing stars. 

Type of the world to be. 
The vision of a world set free from wars 

Takes life, takes form from thee; 
Where all the jarring nations of this earth. 

Beneath the all-blessing sun. 
Bring the new music of mankind to birth. 

And make the whole world one." 



212 WAR READINGS 

And those old comrades rise around him there. 

Old foemen, side by side. 
With eyes like stars upon the brave night air. 

And young as when they died, 
To hear your bells, beautiful Princeton towers, 

Ring for the world's release. 
They see you piercing like gray swords through flowers. 

And smile, from souls at peace. 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES ^ 

Dartmouth is the British naval training-college. The young midship- 
man who writes this story was barely sixteen years old. The story was 
written while at home on sick leave in December, 1915, and has been edited 
for publication by his mother. She says that it has been left mainly in 
his own words. This book has been described as "one of the unique per- 
sonal records of this war." The travels of this boy should be followed on 
a map of the world. 

A Midshipman's Log 

My first term at Dartmouth commenced on the 7th of May, 1914 
— previously I had, of course, been through the regulation two 
years at Osborne College in the Isle of Wight. 

Compared with the collection of low, one-storied, bungalow-like 
buildings which comprise the Osborne premises, the College, 
standing high upon a hill above the river, appeared to me a very 
imposing structure. . . . 

A long flight of stone steps leads up through the grounds from 

the workshops, and after climbing these I found myself in the big 

entrance-hall of the college, where I was met by a warrant-officer 

who took me to his office, and after filing my health certificate, 

showed me the way to the vast mess-room where the five hundred 

or so of cadets in residence have all their meals. 

1 From "From Dartmouth to the Dardanelles," copyright, 1916, by William 
Heinemarm. Used by permission. 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 213 

At 6 o'clock next morning we were all awakened by the reveille, 
and trooped down in a body to the bathrooms for the cold plunge 
with which, unless excused by doctor's orders, every cadet must 
begin the day. Then, having been informed by the senior cadets 
who were placed in authority over us that if we were not dressed in 
one and a half minutes the consequences would be unpleasant, we 
threw on as many clothes as possible, and ran out of the dormitory 
surreptitiously carrying boots, ties and collars, and finished dress- 
ing in the gun-room. Then we waited about, greeted friends, 
and exchanged reminiscences of the past "leave" until summoned 
to breakfast at 7.30. 

This meal was served in the mess-room in which I had had my 
supper the night before, and we all scrambled and fought our way 
up some stairs to a gallery where were situated the four long tables 
reserved for the use of the junior term. 

Breakfast over, the cadet captains (who correspond to the moni- 
tors of our public schools) showed us over the College grounds, 
and drew our attention to the various rules, regulations, and 
notices posted up at different points. 

It may be here noted that everything at Dartmouth is done at 
the "double," i. e., at a run. Strolling around with your hands 
in your pockets after the fashion of most public schools is, of 
course, not allowed in an establishment where naval discipline 
prevails. 

This summer term of 1914, destined surely to be the most mo- 
mentous in the whole history of the College, nevertheless pursued 
its normal course until July 18, on which date began the great 
test mobilization of the "Fleet in being," to which we had all 
been eagerly looking forward for some weeks. 

The cadets were all sent to Portsmouth, from where they em- 
barked on the various ships to which they had been respectively 
appointed. As a description of my personal experiences I think 
I will insert here the copy of a letter I wrote to my mother on my 
return to the College, omitting only some personal details of no 
interest to the public. 



214 WAR READINGS 

"Dartmouth College, Devon: July 25, 1914. 
"Darling Mother — 

"Thanks so much for your letter and enclosures. . . . Now 
to describe the mobilization. It was the finest thing I've ever 
seen ! I did enjoy myself. When we were just coming into 
Gosport in the train, we saw an airship and two aeroplanes above 
us. We went on board the tank-ship Provider, which took us to 
our respective ships. While we were waiting to start we saw flights 
of aeroplanes like birds chasing each other through the air, and 
a big airship was slowly hovering about low down on the horizon. 
The harbor was teeming with dashing little launches rushing about 
commanded by * snotties ' ! ^ Outside the sight was wonderful. 
Simply miles of stately battle-ships, and swarms of little torpedo- 
craft. As we steamed out the Astra Torres, a huge airship hovered 
over us. Just as we got abreast the line they fired a salute of 
12-pounders to the King. It was lovely seeing the little white 
spurts of smoke from the sides of the huge ships. We went along- 
side the Irresistible, and soon afterward saw the Formidable sig- 
nalling to us a message from my ship — the Lord Nelson. 

"Almost directly afterward her launch steamed alongside tow- 
ing a boat for our luggage. There were no 'snotties' on board 
my ship and we had to take their duty, and were treated just like 
midshipmen. It was absolutely ripping ! When we got on board 
we went down to the gun-room flat and deposited our bags and 
'macks.' Then we went up on deck and a Petty Officer showed 
us the 9.2 and 12 inch turrets, and how they worked. Then we 
set to and started to explore the ship. After this came supper of 
sardines and bread and butter and ginger beer in the gun-room. 

"Then we went on deck and looked at everything and climbed 
up to the search-light platforms till the search-light display began. 
That was splendid. The beams seemed to pierce everywhere. 
They described arcs and circles in the sky and swept up and 
down, and round and round, and from right forward to right aft. 
This went on for about an hour, and then we turned into our ham- 

i Lieutenants. 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 215 

mocks. At first I couldn't get into mine, but when I had suc- 
ceeded, and as soon as I had kicked the foot out as the hammock 
was too short for me, I found that it was more comfortable than a 
bed. The only thing that kept me awake was the ship's company 
' singsong,' but I did not mind as it was all very lovely and novel, 
and they sang such topping sea-songs. 

"We turned out in the morning and had a bath and dressed, 
and had breakfast, and then went on deck. We had to officer 
parties of seamen at 'divisions.' I was in charge of the ship's 
boys. After that we had church, which was on the men's mess- 
deck. I sat just opposite the galley whence emerged an odor of 
varied foods cooking, and I was so far away from the Padre that 
I never heard a word and nearly went to sleep. After church we 
shifted from our best clothes and started exploring again. We 
looked in the engine-room and went up a mast, etc. . . . Next 
morning we got up early and watched them weighing anchor. We 
saw the 1st Fleet slowly get under way. When they had all passed 
we got under way and steamed down Spithead at the head of our 
line. When we got near the royal yacht, ship was lined and we 
fell in on the after turret to cheer the King. That was grand ! 
To see the stately ships steam by and hear their ship's companies 
cheering for their King ! 

"Then we went below and shifted into flannels and put on our 
overalls and had to get down into the engine-room and boiler- 
room to be shown round. In the upper part of the boiler- 
room the temperature was about 110° Fahrenheit, I should think I 
The rails of the steps were so hot that they blistered my hands. 
Then the 1st Fleet fought us in a sham fight out in mid-channel, 
and there was a beastly row when each ship started firing her 
12-pounders. 

"In the middle of it the 1st Fleet Destroyer flotilla dashed up 
to within 400 yards, intending to torpedo us, and we fired our 12- 
pounders as fast as we could load them. The flotilla then turned 
round and steamed away as fast as they could. I think we were 
guppos^d to have beaten them off. At 4 o'clock the battle ended 



216 WAR READINGS 

and our Fleet remained at sea all that night. We arrived at Port- 
land at 8 in the morning, and after breakfast we disembarked 
and returned to the College by train. I must stop now as it is 
time for prayers. Fuller details in the leave. Best love from 



"Mobilize!" On Saturday the 1st of August, the Captain, 
standing at the main entrance to the College, opened the fateful 
telegram which contained only that one momentous word. It had 
come at last! Our dreams were realized; it was war! But — 
did one of us, I wonder, even dimly imagine the stern and terrible 
business that war would be? 

The news reached me as I was leaning against the balcony of the 
gymnasium talking to a friend after a bout at the punch-ball. A 
dishevelled fii th-termer burst through the swing-doors and shouted 
at the top of his voice: "Mobilize!" 

At first all were incredulous. Murmurs of "Only a scare" — 
"I don't think!" etc., etc., rose on all sides; but, after the mes- 
senger had kicked two or three cadets through the door with em- 
phatic injunctions to "get a move on quick" — the rest of us were 
convinced, and we hurled ourselves out of the building and away 
to the College. 

Masters and ofllcers on motor-bikes and "push "-bikes were 
careering over the surrounding country to recall the cadets who 
had gone out on leave, and to commandeer every kind of vehicle 
capable of carrying the big sea-chests down to the river. 

In gun-room and dormitory clothes, books, and boots were 
thrown pell-mell into these same chests, which, when crammed to 
their utmost capacity, were closed with a series of bangs which 
rang out like the sound of pistol-shots. Perspiring cadets, with 
uniform thrown on anyhow, dragged and pushed them through 
doors and passages with sublime disregard of the damage to both. 

For two hours the work of transportation went on, and then all 
cadets turned to and strapped together such games, gear, and 
books as were to be sent home. 

At 5.30 every one fell in on the quarter-deck, and as each re- 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 217 

ceived his pay went off to the mess-room to get something to 
eat before setting out on the train journey. After this we all re- 
paired to the gunner's office to telegraph to our homes that we were 
ordered away on active service. My wire was as follows : " Gen- 
eral mobilization. Embarked H. M. S. ' ,' Chatham. Will 

write at once" — and when received was a terrible shock to my 
poor mother, who had not had the faintest idea that we "first- 
termers" would in any eventuality be sent to sea. 

Thus it was that, three weeks before my fifteenth birthday, I 
went to war ! 

Hastily we scrambled aboard, in the excitement of the moment 
nearly forgetting to salute the quarter-deck. Fortunately all rec-- 
oUected that ceremony in time with the exception only of one, 
who was promptly dropped on by the Commander— much to his 
confusion and dismay. 

In obedience to the order of the cadet captain in charge we 
"fell in" on the quarter-deck while the Commander went below 
to report to the Captain. As we were awaiting further instruc- 
tions the first Lieutenant, who was also the Torpedo Lieutenant 
(commonly known in naval slang as "Torps"), came up and 
spoke to us. He told us he would probably have to look after us, 
and said he hoped we should like the life on board. We all thought 
he seemed to be a very nice officer— an opinion we found no occa- 
sion to change, and we were all sincerely sorry when, three months 
later, he had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the enemy. 

The Commander then reappeared and told us to go down to the 
Captain's cabin. We ran down the gangway he had just come up, 
and our cadet captain knocked at the door of the after cabin. A 
voice said, "Come in"— and Carey entered, leaving us standing 
outside. In a few seconds he returned and beckoned to us to fol- 
low him. We did so, and came to " attention" facing the Captain, 
who was seated at a knee-hole writing-desk. 

He eyed us keenly until we were all assembled, and then, leaning 
forward toward us, he rapped sharply on his desk with a ruler, and 
said in a deep bass voice: 



218 WAR READINGS 

"Young gentlemen, it is war-time, and you have been sent to 
sea as officers in His Majesty's Navy!" 

He then continued, so far as I can remember, to express the 
hope that we might worthily uphold the traditions of a great ser- 
vice. Further he informed us that all our letters would be strictly 
censored; that our relatives and friends would only be able to 
write to us "Care of the General Post Office, London"; and that 
on no account must we write them one single word indicative of 
the whereabouts or work of the ship ; for, under the Official Secrets 
Act, any infringement of this rule rendered us liable in the words 
of the Articles of War to " Death — or some such other punishment 
hereinafter mentioned ! " . . . 

. . . We went away feeling very small and rather crestfallen, 
and I am afraid we thought our new Captain rather unnecessarily 
stern and severe, though it was not long before we recognized the 
absolute necessity for such restrictions. It must be remembered 
that at that time we were only raw, inexperienced boys and most 
of us barely fifteen years old. Later on, when we had worked 

under Captain 's command — above all, when we came to 

know of the letters he, in spite of his many and onerous duties, 
had found time to write to our mothers — letters so kindly in their 
sympathy and understanding, so generous in their recognition of 
our efforts to do our duty — we appraised him at his true worth; 
and when he, together with so many of our ship's company, gave 
up his life for England in that disaster in which our ship was lost^ 
those of us who survived mourned the loss of a true friend, and 
carry in our hearts for all time the honored memory of "a very 
gallant gentleman." . . . 

One afternoon we took on board a detachment of 800 marines 
with their equipment, and shortly afterward weighed anchor and 
steamed out of Ostend roads. 

When we went to night-defense stations at 8 o'clock that night 
there were marines all over the place — sleeping on the deck and in 
the battery and, in fact, anywhere there was room to lie down. We 
came across two sergeants who had been drill-instructors at Os- 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 219 

borne College when we were there, and had a yarn with them over 
old times. 

About 9 o'clock rapid firing was heard on our starboard bow. 

I was then stationed at my search-light on the port side just 
abaft the bridge, and I ran up the short gangway and across to the 
forward end of the shelter-deck to see what was happening. At 
first it sounded like big guns over the horizon, and I thought we 
had run into an action ; but when I got on the bridge I saw that it 
was the flag-ship that had fired and was now turning four points to 
starboard to give the other ships a clear range. Our helm was now 
put to port, and we swung off in the wake of the flag-ship. 

Then I heard the captain give the order to switch on No. 1 search- 
light, which was in charge of Cunninghame, our junior cadet. 
This light was just forward of mine, and I nipped back in a hurry 
in case mine should switch on. No. 1 failed to pick up the object 
the flag-ship had fired at — which, by the lights it was showing, 
should by rights have been a fishing-smack — and his beam was 
very badly focussed. I knew my beam was all right, as I had 
tested it when preparing for night defense, and, as I had trained 
on the lights in question as soon as I had seen them, when the 
captain ordered me to switch on, my beam revealed the object at 
once. It proved to be two German destroyers, one showing the 
lights usually shown by a fishing-smack, the other showing no 
lights at all ! Now the other search-lights quickly focussed on the 
enemy, and one of our 12-pounders fired two shots in swift suc- 
cession. A few seconds later I saw two flashes in the beam of the 
search-lights where the shells struck the water close to their objec- 
tive, and two white columns of water were flung high into the air. 
Then came a blinding flash, followed immediately by the sound of 
an explosion; a blast of hot air, smelling strongly of cordite, caught 
me unprepared and threw me off my balance. The six-inch gun 
immediately below me had fired without any warning. I never 
saw the fall of that shell, although, as soon as I had recovered my- 
self, I watched the enemy ships carefully. Only a minute later 
one of them fired a torpedo at us. For some way we could follow 



220 WAR READINGS 

the track of bubbles in the gleam of the search-lights — then it 
passed out of the light, and there came a moment of breathless 
suspense. Had they got us ? No ! the brute passed harmlessly 
between us and the flag-ship. 

Then our aftermost six-inch gun fired, but this time I was pre- 
pared, and, bracing myself against the blast, watched eagerly for 
the fall of the shot. It pitched some hundred yards from the 
torpedo-boats — ricochetted like a stone — hit the second of them 
right amidships and exploded; and the enemy craft simply van- 
ished from the face of the waters ! A jolly lucky shot ! The other 
destroyer evidently thought so anyway, for, extinguishing her lights 
on the moment, she dashed away at full speed and was lost to 
sight in the darkness. 

Presumably pursuit was useless, for shortly afterward we ex- 
tinguished our search-lights and proceeded on our way without 
encountering any more excitement. 

The next day, which we spent at sea, was quite uneventful, and 
on the following evening we entered Spithead. 

Here, with the last rays of the setting sun illuminating their 
pale-gray hulls, lay the whole of the 2d Fleet at anchor off 
Portsmouth. We had parted company with the two last ships of 
our division just outside, they having gone on to Portland and 
Plymouth respectively, and we entered Portsmouth in the wake of 
the flag-ship, lining ship and dipping our ensign as we passed the 
old Victory, and shortly afterward dropping anchor in the harbor. 

That night we disembarked all the marines. . , . 

At 2 A. M. one morning we stopped both engines just outside 
Valetta Harbor; the guard-boat came alongside and gave us in- 
structions to proceed to Port Said, and there, after an uneventful 
voyage, we duly arrived three days later. . . . 

... In the evening we weighed anchor and, taking on a pilot, 
proceeded through the Canal. Great expanses of open water, 
broken occasionally by long sand-spits, stretched away on either 
side. The banks of the Canal are raised some six feet above the 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 221 

water-level and are about twenty feet wide. On our starboard, 
or the Egyptian side, ran a caravan road overshadowed by plane 
and palm trees, and we saw several camels being driven along by 
Arabs in picturesque flowing garments. Presently the sun dipped 
below the horizon and turned the wide expanse of water to the 
color of blood. Gradually this faded away and slowly disap- 
peared, and only a beautiful rosy glow was left in the sky above us. 

... At this time we had taken to sleeping on deck because of 
the heat, and in the middle of that night I woke up just as we 
were passing three Indian troop-ships which were tied up to the 
eastern bank of the Canal. 

A gorgeous full moon was shining down on the desert, silver- 
ing the sand, and making everything almost as clear as in day- 
light. There was no sound to break the silence save the gentle 
lippety-lap of our wash against the banks. I got up and leaned 
over the shelter-deck watching the desert as we slipped by. I used 
to imagine somehow that the desert was flat, but of course it isn't ! 

Every now and then we would pass a tall palm-tree showing 
up in deep relief against the rolling sand-hills, and sometimes a 
sleeping Arab and his camel. Presently we passed into the Bitter 
Lakes, when all around us stretched placid water, the channel 
being marked out with red and green lights dwindling away in 
dim perspective to the horizon. Toward dawn a little chill, sigh- 
ing breeze sprang up, and I returned to my slumbers. 

Next morning, as we drew near Suez, the view was glorious. 
Mile on mile of billowing sand, golden now in the fierce rays of 
the sun, stretched away on either side, the banks being clothed with 
sparse vegetation. 

, . . That evening found us far down the Gulf of Suez and 
Mount Sinai appeared on our star-board beam. Next day we 
were in the Red Sea, where we found it appallingly hot. Every 
morning we used to bathe in a canvas bath which was rigged up 
on the quarter-deck and filled with sea-water. We had our first 
experience of that most objectionable thing, "prickly heat," here, 
and did not like it at all! 



222 WAR READINGS 

We were up early next morning for our first good look at Aden. 
What an arid place ! Great mountains tower above the town to a 
height of several thousand feet. Not a leaf, not a tree to be seen, 
no scrap of vegetation, no glimpse of green save only a small patch 
of some kind of grass, just opposite the landing-stage. Truly the 
place is suitably immortalized in the name of the famous pipe- 
tune, "The Barren Rocks of Aden!" 

. . , That afternoon we weighed anchor and sailed for Bombay, 
arrived there about a week later, and dropped anchor in the early 
morning while it was still dark; and coaling by native labor began 
again at once. 

Daylight revealed a huge convoy of over sixty ships assembled 
in the harbor and shepherded by one of our battleships. 

In the afternoon native merchants came aboard bringing deck- 
chairs, mosquito-nets, and other less useful things for sale. By 
the advice of the surgeons we all supplied ourselves with mosquito- 
nets, and many of us also bought deck-chairs and mats. 

That evening the whole of the convoy mentioned above got 

under way, and we, together with H. M. S. " ," formed their 

escort. After a voyage of little more than a week we sighted 

H. M. S. " ," who took our place, while we, separating from 

the main body, took half the convoy down toward Tanga. One 
of the troop-ships was very slow and could only do about seven and 
a half knots, which delayed the convoy a lot. 

Now we learned that we were under orders to destroy all the 
shipping in the harbor of Dar-es-Salaam, the capital of German 
East Africa, which lies about twenty miles south of Zanzibar. It 
appeared that the Huns in that port had been surreptitiously 
supplying food, etc., to the crew of the Koenigsberg, that German 
raider which had been safely bottled up in the Rufigi river some 
weeks previously, and it was designed to cut their claws by dis- 
abling such merchant shipping as they possessed. 

That evening we dropped anchor in Zanzibar, and started coal- 
ing by native labor. Here we saw the masts of H. M. S. Pegasus 
sticking up forlornly out of the water half a mile on our port bow. 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 223 

They were very much battered and smashed, for she had been sunk 
by the Koenigsberg in September. 

Early next morning we weighed anchor, and proceeded out of 
the harbor in company with H. M. S. " ." 

At 8 A, M. we sighted Dar-es-Salaam, and all hands went to gen- 
eral quarters. Half an hour later we dropped anchor in the roads 
outside Dar-es-Salaam, and when all the guns were cleared away, 
and ready for instant action, we were allowed to go on deck for a 
few minutes. 

The town, with the Governor's house, a handsome building, 
standing out prominently on the foreshore, looked very peaceful 
and harmless in the brilliant tropical sunshine. It was rather an 
awful thought that we might have to shatter and destroy those 
quiet-looking houses in which lived women and — worst of all — 
children. War is a ghastly thing, and it seems so wantonly stupid. 

A large white flag was hoisted at our foremast. We meant to 
play a square game anyway, and give them a fair chance. Then 
we signalled to the Governor of the town to come on board and 
receive our ultimatum. 

The said ultimatum was as follows: 

If our boats were allowed to go unmolested into the harbor, there 
to destroy the shipping in accordance with our orders, we would 
not bombard the town. But — in the event of hostile action against 
our expedition we should open fire on the town without further 
warning. ... In about ten minutes the officer in charge of one 
of the batteries telephoned through to us that rapid firing had 
broken out from the shore, although the Germans were still flying 
the white flag! 

. . . Almost immediately the order came through from the con- 
trol position: "Range 4,500, deflection 3 left — both turrets load 
with common object — the Governor's house" — followed quickly by 
" Commence ! " The A. P. who worked the turret telephone gave 
the order: "Stand by — Fire!" And about one minute later we 
heard from the battery that the Governor's house had been hit 
and totally destroyed ! Jolly good shot ! Hurrah ! 



224 WAR READINGS 

Now all guns which could be brought to bear on the town were 
firing rapidly. 

. . . The bombardment continued the whole afternoon. Down 
in the Fore T. S. the heat was stifling — we were all stripped to the 
waist and streaming with perspiration. 

. . . Shortly afterward the "Cease Fire" sounded, and, hastily 
changing, we ran up on deck to see what damage had been done. 

... At 2 next morning we anchored in Zanzibar Harbor, and 
the wounded were transferred to the hospital. 

By this time we had learned what had taken place while our 
boats were in the enemy's harbor. They had no sooner entered 
the mouth than, despite the white flags, a heavy fire broke out 
from the shore. Nevertheless, gallantly proceeding with their 
duty, they had managed to destroy two ships, and had then run 
alongside a large hospital-ship. Three of our officers, accompanied 
by the demolition party, had hardly boarded her before three 
Maxims were unmasked on her deck, opening a murderous fire on 
the boat, which was forced to retire. 

One of our party — the surgeon — managed to fight his way back 
to the gangway, and, leaping into a small boat alongside, pre- 
sented his revolver at the heads of two natives who were in it, and 
ordered them to row him back to the pinnace. They had only 
pulled a few strokes when the surgeon was hit in the head and fell 
down in the bottom of the boat, apparently dead. The natives 
at once turned the boat round and in terror of their lives rowed 
back to the treacherous hospital-ship. 

The pinnace was then forced to abandon all hope of recovering 
the prisoners, and with much difficulty fought her way out of the 
harbor and back to the ships. 

For his gallantry on this occasion our Commander eventually 
received the V. C. The cockswain was awarded the C. G. M., 
and the lieutenant in command of the tug, who was also wounded, 
received the D. S. C. 

During the voyage up the coast, the Admiral had us all in turn 
to breakfast with him. This was a great treat to us, for not only 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 225 

was Vice-Admiral a most kindly and genial host, but the fare 

at his table, though not, perhaps, luxurious according to shore and 
peace standards, was a vast improvement on the bully-beef, lique- 
fied margarine, and very nasty bread, which was all that was to be 
had in the gun-room. Perhaps this sounds rather greedy, but it 
is really extraordinary how awfully important quite ordinarily nice 
food becomes when it is no longer an every-day matter of course ! 

Crash ! Bang ! — Cr-r-r-ash ! I woke with a start, and sitting 
up in my hammock gazed around to see what had so suddenly 
roused me. Some of the midshipmen were already standing on 
the deck in their pajamas — others, like me, were sitting up half 
dazed with sleep. A party of ship's boys crowded up the ladder 
from the gun-room flat, followed by three officers; one of these, a 
sublieutenant R. N. R., called out: "Keep calm, and you'll all 
be saved." 

... Gradually a crowd gathered along the port side. " Boat 
ahoy ! Boat ahoy !" they yelled; but, as the ship listed more and 
more, and there was no sign or sound of any approaching vessel, 
the men's voices seemed to get a bit hopeless. The Commander 
was urging on a gang who were trying to get some heavy timber 
overboard; but, as we listed further and further over, they found 
it impossible to get it up on the port side and couldn't get round to 
starboard, as the capstan and the Captain's hatch and skylight were 
in the way. At last they gave it up, and going to the side joined 
their voices to those of the crew, who were trying to attract the 
attention of any vessel that might be in the vicinity. 

Inside the ship everything which was not secured was sliding 
about and bringing up against the bulkheads with a series of crashes. 
Crockery was smashing — boats falling out of their crutches — 
broken funnel-guys swinging against the funnel casings. She had 
heeled over to about twenty degrees, then she stopped and re- 
mained steady for a few seconds. In the momentary lull the voice 
of one of our officers rang out steady and clear as at "divisions": 
"Keep calm, men. Be British!" 



226 WAR READINGS 

Then the ship started to heel rapidly again, and I felt sure there 
was no chance of saving her. I turned to jump overboard. The 
Commander, who was standing a few paces away on my right, 
went over a second before me. Raising my arms above my head, 
I sprang well out board and dived. Just before I struck the 
water my face hit the side of the ship. It was a horrid feeling 
sliding on my face down the slimy side, and a second later I splashed 
in with tremendous force, having dived about thirty feet. 

Just as I was rising to the surface again a heavy body came 
down on top of me. I fought clear and rose rather breathless 
and bruised. I swam about fifty yards away, to get clear of the 
suction when the ship went down; then, turning round and tread- 
ing water, I watched her last moments. The noise of crashing 
furniture and smashing crockery was continued. Slowly her 
stern lifted until it was dimly outlined against the deep midnight 
sky. Slowly her bows slid further and further under until, with a 
final lurch, she turned completely over and disappeared bottom 
upward in a mass of bubbles. 

She had been our home for nearly ten months — she was gone — 
vanished in less than four minutes. 

. . . When I had been in the water for about twenty minutes 
I looked up and saw what I thought to be a boat. I shouted out, 
"Boat ahoy!" — and, turning on my side, swam for some time a 
fast side-stroke. When at last I rested and looked for the imagined 
boat, which ought to have been quite near by now, I discovered 
that I had somehow misfocussed the Cornwallis, and so come to 
imagine she was a small steamboat quite close instead of a battle- 
ship a mile and a half away. However, I felt quite confident of 
reaching her if only I persevered, so I continued to swim a slow 
side-stroke. Soon after this my pajama jacket came undone, and 
I took it off as it hindered me. 

. . . About a quarter of a mile behind me, and slightly up-stream, 
I saw another ship with all her search-lights going and I deter- 
mined to try and reach her. I swam toward her, and presently 
saw two steambbats push off from her bow and make off up-stream 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 227 

for the scene of the disaster, but they were too far off to hail. Five 
minutes later I heard the welcome plash of oars and, looking to 
my left, saw a cutter approaching with a man in the bows sweep- 
ing the surrounding water with a hand-lantern. I yelled out, 
"Boat ahoy!" and back came the cheering answer: "All right, 
we're coming. Hang on!" 

A minute later the lantern flashed in my face, a pair of strong 
arms grasped me by the shoulders and hauled me clear of the 
water. 

I must have fainted then, for I remember nothing more until I 
became dimly conscious as in a dream that I was in the stern- 
sheets of a boat lying alongside some other vessel. A man's voice 
said, " Here's a midshipman, sir," and next moment I was picked 
up and set down on the deck. 

Barely conscious as yet of my surroundings, I was taken into a 
sort of cabin, where I was given some neat rum. It was very 
fiery and nearly choked me, but it bucked me up a bit all the same. 
Then I was conducted down to the boiler-room, where some one 
stripped off my pajama trousers (my one remaining garment), 
and I sat down on a locker before the furnace and soon got a de- 
gree of warmth back into my body. 

Presently I heard the voice of one of our Lieutenants speaking 
up above, and called out to him to know how he'd come off. Then 
I was helped up the gangway again and into a small sort of saloon 
in the stern. Here I was given some more rum, a very large 
sweater, and a pair of blue serge trousers belonging to one of the 
crew, and when I had put them on I lay down in a bunk and im- 
mediately fell asleep. About an hour later I woke up and found 
the saloon full of officers and men. 

The Lieutenant to whom I had spoken in the boiler-room was 
sitting at the table. He was dressed in a jersey and a seaman's 
duck trousers. Two other survivors, a marine and an armorer, 
were also at the table, and across the saloon in the bunk opposite 
mine lay a gunner's mate. I asked the Lieutenant what time our 
ship was struck. He said his watch had stopped at L29 a. m.. 



228 WAR READINGS 

when he jumped Into the sea, and so he presumed we were tor- 
pedoed at about 1.27, as the ship only took three and a half min- 
utes to go down. She had been struck on the starboard side by 
three torpedoes fired from a Turkish torpedo-boat, which had 
drifted down the straits keeping close inshore, and thus eluded 
our destroyer patrol. To give the enemy his due, it was a jolly 
smart piece of work. 

. . . One of the Lord Nelson's middies kindly lent me some 
old uniform, and after I had dressed I made a parcel of the clothes 
I had been lent on the trawler and took them to the ship's corporal, 
and asked him to see that they were returned to their owner. 

I remembered, with an odd sense of unreality, that the last time 
I had been in the Lord Nelson was at the manoeuvres the previous 
July! 

. . . However, my discontent was short-lived, for I soon found 
that, after all, my luck was "in." That afternoon I was leaning 
over the stanchions looking at the shipping in the harbor, and 
wondering what fate might have in store for me, when the Lieu- 
tenant-Commander of the T. B.'s 1 and the Captain of the Fawette 
came along the deck and stopped close to where I was standing, 
and I heard the former say that he intended — if he could get the 
Admiral's permission — to take one of the rescued midshipmen 
to act as second in command of his torpedo-boat. I pricked up 

my ears at that, and a few minutes later, when Captain had 

gone below, I summoned up all my courage (call it cheek, if you 
like), and, regardless of the snub I was undoubtedly asking for, 
I went boldly up to the Lieutenant-Commander and told him I 
had overheard what he had said, and asked him if he would 
not take me if he could, as I was most awfully keen to serve on 
a T. B. 

He was frightfully kind, and did not seem a bit annoyed or sur- 
prised, nor did he hand me the snubbing I had invited; but he 
explained that, although at the moment the job I coveted was 
pleasant enough and not too strenuous, it was likely to be a very 

1 Torpedo boats. 



FROM DARTMOUTH TO THE DARDANELLES 229 

stiff service later on, and he asked if I really felt I should be equal 
to it. 

Next morning Lieutenant-Commander came aboard again, 

and to my intense delight told me I was duly appointed to his T. B. 
and could join that afternoon ! Further, he invited me there 
and then to go off with him and have a look round the boat. I 
found it a very different proposition to the big ship to which I 
had been accustomed. To begin with, there was only one tiny 
cabin, called by courtesy the ward-room, in which we would live 
and eat and sleep, and my new skipper warned me that when we 
were at sea it would often be three feet deep in water. However, 
I felt it would require much more water than that to damp my 
ardor for this new and exciting work. 

Then he gave me a brief explanation of the duty on which the 
T. B.'s were then engaged. That night, he said, we would in all 
probability go out on patrol duty, just outside the boom until 
relieved at 6 the next morning. Then we might proceed to sea 
and patrol the waters surrounding the island of Lemnos. Doubt- 
less we should anchor in some small bay for the night, and early 
next morning return to harbor, when we should have a day off, 
and so on and so forth. 

. . . That night I slept on one of the settees which served the 
single cabin for seats and lockers by day as well as for bunks by 
night, and early the next morning we put to sea on patrol duty, car- 
rying a crew of sixteen in addition to the Commander and myself. 

. . . No particular incident occurred during our patrol, and the 
next morning, after being relieved by another T. B., we proceeded 
for duty off the island. 

My enjoyment of the three weeks I spent in this service was 
due in no little measure to the personal charm of my skipper, who 
was not only the most considerate and tactful officer to serve under, 
but a most charming and interesting companion. The work was 
mainly routine on the lines indicated above, and although there 
was plenty of variety, and at times no little excitement, to en- 
large further on our doings would be waste of pen and ink, as any 



230 WAR READINGS 

more detailed account would probably be "omitted by order of 
the censor" ! 

It had not occurred to me that those august, and occasionally 
paternally minded, powers who preside over the sailorman's 
earthly destiny, would think it necessary to send me home on 
leave, " Leave" had long since been relegated in my mind to that 
dim and distant future "after the War." Doubtless the said 
powers in their wisdom realized — as at that time I certainly did 
not — the inevitable strain following on my narrow escape from the 
sinking ship. 

It was, however, with some surprise and much regret that I 
heard from the Commander on the 1st of June, that he had been 
ordered to send me at once to the auxiliary cruiser Carmania, on 
which ship I was to proceed to England. 

Very reluctantly I took leave of the T. B. and her genial Com- 
mander, and went on board the armed liner, where I found most of 
the survivors from my old ship. Alas ! they were tragically few, 
for out of a ship's company of 760 only 160 men and 20 officers 
had been saved. 

. . . Our voyage home was uneventful. Now that there was 
no duty to be performed I think most of us began to feel a bit slack, 
but our spirits rose as they turned homeward. We had not seen 
our people for nearly thirteen months, and the necessarily strict 
censorship of all our letters had of course increased the sense of 
separation. 

On June 12 we arrived at Devonport, and our Commander went 
ashore and shortly afterward returned with the welcome informa- 
tion that we had all been granted a fortnight's leave. 

Leave ! Cheero-o ! We wasted no time in getting ashore, 
and I at once wired to my mother that I had arrived, and was 
going straight to London to the house of some cousins who had 
offered me hospitality whenever I might need it, and that I would 
there await instructions as I did not know where she might be. 
A fast train landed us at Paddington about 5 o'clock, and I took a 
taxi to S Place. 



THE WILLIAM P. FRYE 231 

The Home-Coming Described by Mother 

The Admiralty had informed me that he had sailed for England 
on the 2d, and I knew he would go to London according to in- 
struction, so I was able to be there to meet him. 

I had not seen him since he left for Dartmouth, nearly fourteen 
months before. Then he was a round-faced, rosy boy. . . . 

Up the steps, dragging a seaman's canvas kit-bag, came a tall, 
thin figure, white of face, drawn, haggard — incredibly old. I had 
not quite realized this. For a second my heart stood still — 
Where was my boy? 

Then he saw me waiting in the hall, and his face lighted with 
half-incredulous, joyous wonder: "Mother! You here!" 

My boy was gone forever — but my son had come home. 



THE WILLIAM P. FRYE^ 

JEANNE ROBERT FOSTER 

The William P. Frye was an American sailing vessel that sailed from 
Seattle with a cargo of wheat bound for an English port. On January 
28, 1915, she was sunk in the South Atlantic by a German commerce raider 
whose commander claimed that her cargo was contraband of war. 

I saw her first abreast the Boston Light 
At anchor; she had just come in, turned head. 
And sent her hawsers creaking, clattering down. 
I was so near to where the hawse-pipes fed 
The cable out from her careening bow, 
I moved up on the swell, shut steam and lay 
Hove to in my old launch to look at her. 
She'd come in light, a-skimming up the Bay 
Like a white ghost with topsails bellying full; 

1 From "Wild Apples." Copyright by Sherman French & Co. Used by per- 
mission. 



232 WAR READINGS 

And all her noble lines from bow to stern 
Made music in the wind; it seemed she rode 
The morning air like those thin clouds that turn 
Into tall ships when sunrise lifts the clouds 
From calm sea-courses. 

There, in smoke-smudged coats. 

Lay funnelled liners, dirty fishing-craft. 

Blunt cargo-luggers, tugs, and ferry-boats. 

Oh, it was good in that black-scuttled lot 

To see the FRYE come lording on her way 

Like some old queen that we had half forgot 

Come to her own. A little up the Bay 

The Fort lay green, for it was springtime then; 

The wind was fresh, rich with the spicy bloom 

Of the New England coast that tardily 

Escapes, late April, from an icy tomb. 

The State-house glittered on old Beacon Hill, 

Gold in the sun. . . . 'Twas all so fair awhile; 

But she was fairest — this great square-rigged ship 

That had blown in from some far happy isle 

On from the shores of the Hesperides. 

They caught her in a South Atlantic road 

Becalmed, and found her hold brimmed up with wheat; 

"Wheat's contraband," they said, and blew her hull 

To pieces, murdered one of our staunch fleet, 

Fast dwindling, of the big old sailing ships 

That carry trade for us on the high sea 

And warped out of each harbor in the States. 

It wasn't law, so it seems strange to me — 

A big mistake. Her keel's struck bottom now 

And her four masts sunk fathoms, fathoms deep 

To Davy Jones. The dank seaweed will root 

On her oozed decks, and the cross-surges sweep 




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We need him and you too! 

Na^F Recruiting Station 



Drawn by C D. Gibson. 



TORPEDOED 233 

Through the set sails; but never, never more 
Her crew will stand away to brace and trim 
Nor sea-blown petrels meet her thrashing up 
To windward on the Gulf Stream's stormy rim; 
Never again she'll head a no'theast gale 
Or like a spirit loom up, sliding dumb, 
And ride in safe beyond the Boston Light, 
To make the harbor glad because she's come. 



TORPEDOED i 

ALBERT KINROSS 



The first torpedo struck us at a few minutes past ten o'clock in 
the morning. I was down below in the saloon with E. We had 
both kept a boat-watch during the night and were the last officers 
to come to breakfast. 

The saloon was a fine, large place, with lots of glass and tables 
and white-jacketed stewards. Above, on the decks, the men and 
most of the officers had fallen in at dawn and were to remain 
alert during our passage through the danger zone. A couple of 
Japanese destroyers, one to port and one to starboard, formed our 
escort. Our course was a series of zigzags at fourteen knots per 
hour by day and rather more at night. 

E. and I ate our bacon and eggs and drank our coffee. The 
steward waiting on us was a clean-shaven little fellow who looked 
much like a low comedian. When the torpedo struck, there was 
no mistaking it for anything else. E. and I laughed, as much as to 
say: "Here she is!" Then I put on my cork belt, asked myself 
whether any part of me had suffered in the explosion, and received 
a confident answer, and next I leaped up the three flights of stairs 
that led to the liner's deck and my own boat-station. 

1 Prom Atlantic Monthly, December, 1917. Copyright, by The Atlantic Monthly 
Co. Used by permission. 



234 WAR READINGS 

E. raced with me. I have never seen him since; He had a lov- 
able habit of mothering people. I dare say it cost him his life. 
There is something specially tragical about this officer's disap- 
pearance. He was the last of three brothers. Two had died 
gallantly in France, and so that one of her boys might be spared to 
the bereaved mother, E. had been taken out of the trenches and 
given a "safe" job at the base; yet even so the Fates had followed 
him ! 

The stewards and cooks raced with us too. There was something 
theatrical and cinema-ish about that picture — so many white 
jackets and blue uniform trousers and white overalls. 

All this time — it might have been a couple of minutes — the 
greater part of me was so active that I have no recollection of any 
instant devoted to fear. Crude and horrible as it may sound, 
there was a large portion of my consciousness which was most 
vividly and delightedly enjoying itself. I will try to explain why. 

Firstly, the torpedo had come, and with it an end to our suspense, 
A weight seemed lifted. I have crossed the Channel five times, the 
Mediterranean twice and a fraction — I call the last effort a frac- 
tion — during this war; and much of these twenty-three nights and 
seventeen days one was waiting. The Channel crossing is nothing. 
You turn in, go to sleep, and wake in safe waters. But from Salo- 
niki to port, or from Europe to Saloniki, you are at the mercy of 
your digestion, your nerves, and, especially in my own case, an in- 
corrigible imagination. I am a writer, and therefore have not 
spared that faculty. Well, the torpedo had come at last, and now 
farewell to fond imaginings. 

Secondly and chiefly, the whole thing was so terrible as to be 
quite unreal. In that way it defeated itself. I, for one, simply 
could not believe in it. "Such things are done at the 'pictures' 
or at Drury Lane; they are not done in real life." I was arguing 
something like that, very swiftly no doubt, very subconsciously. 
I am not aware that I argued, but I do know that at the outset 
the whole thing seemed like an exciting, wonderful adventure, 
and withal quite unreal. 



TORPEDOED 235 

Just picture us, on a great liner, cosey as a grand hotel. Every- 
thing was remote from war and death, as I have seen them so 
constantly on land these last three years. No mud, no dirt, no 
continuity. And we were all at ease and leading civilian lives, 
with bathrooms, linen sheets, and even an American bar! I 
don't know why, but I had imagined it all quite differently. 

As one rushed up-stairs one thought of things one had valued 
yesterday— two brand-new pairs of boots, one's field-glasses, some 
money — they seemed now so utterly of no account. Providence 
must have been with me, for, arrived on deck, I stood flush before 
my boat, Number 13. I stood there and took charge. To left 
of me the right people were busy with our sixty-six sisters. These 
ladies were part of the staff of a new hospital unit. Safely they 
were put into their boats, safely lowered, and safely rowed away 
from us. We cheered them as they left, and they cheered back. 
Then Tommy, lined on deck, struck up a song. He always does 
in moments of emotion. 

I had filled my boat as full as it would go. All was ready. I 
stepped on board and gave the signal. Then slowly we descended. 
Above our heads one of the ship's oflScers was seeing to it that we 
went down all right. Immediately below us was another boat. 
It pushed off at last, and now we were free to hit the water. Be- 
fore we pushed off I took on five of the crew who had helped to 
lower us. They swarmed down the ropes and reached us safely. 
Then I refused to take anybody else and we got the oars out and 
rowed away. Only then did I notice that the ship had stopped 
dead. She looked perfectly steady, like a ship anchored. 

On leaving her I had thought of the two other officers who should 
have been with me, and of the long rows of men I had seen drawn 
up on the decks. A moment I had hesitated, feeling very like a 
rat, but it was my duty to leave them and I had no choice. Three 
more boats were waiting to follow mine. I pointed this out to 
the men I had to leave behind. And still I felt rather like a rat. 
Now, with a fuller knowledge, I am glad I went. 

I was the only officer in our boat. All my fifty companions were 



236 WAR READINGS 

"other ranks" or else members of the crew. Straightway I 
took command. It seemed a rehef to the men, and it was certainly 
a relief to me. I heard shouts of "Listen to the officer," and all 
those fifty pair of eyes I knew would judge me, and if I were worthy, 
trust me. I had no cap, but I had my tunic and its rank badges 
for all to see. 

Within me I knew that I was an absolute novice, as green as the 
green waters on which we now moved and had our being. " Row 
away from the ship," was my first order. Six or eight boats and 
numerous rafts were already floating on the water. They had 
put a safe distance between themselves and the ship, and I thought 
it right to do the same. One had heard stories about "suction": 
how a sinking vessel draws down other craft with it. So away we 
rowed, very crowded and jammed together. When we had gone 
a couple of hundred yards, I turned to our professional sailors. 
Two were young negroes; the other three were white; but all 
five seemed to know little more than I. They were probably 
stokers or kitchen-hands. In any case, I speedily realized that 
they could help me very little and that I must rely on my own 
judgment. 

So we floated, one of many little units, on those waters ; and for 
a long time we were kept passionately interested by what we saw. 
Speaking for myself, I have never lived through moments so 
tense, so big, so charged with all extremes and textures of emotion. 

The big ship — she was near to 15,000 tons — stood like an island, 
and as if she could stand forever. While one of our destroyers 
went away on an unknown quest, the other drew alongside. We 
saw the little khaki figures swarm into her, and, to be frank, we 
envied them. Then the destroyer manoeuvred, and there was a 
flash and an explosion. A second torpedo had struck and the 
Japanese commander had just dodged it. We now saw that his 
mast was broken and his wireless installation was sagging. But 
still the great ship stood there like an island. " She's beached ! " 
shouted some one; and for quite a while there were many of us 
who felt that was likely. 



TORPEDOED 237 

Our next diversion came from the destroyer. Some one on board 
was signalling us to get out of the way, and some one else on board 
was firing the forward gun straight past us. We were in the line 
of fire and an obstruction. And so we rowed away from there, 
getting clear. Five or six shells were fired. We heard later that 
the target was a sailing-boat which the submarine had used to 
screen her periscope. Personally, I saw nothing of sailing-boat, 
submarine, or periscope. 

I imagine that I must have been uncommonly busy. The sea 
was now nursing a little fleet of boats and rafts, and some of my 
own men wanted comforting. One flash of the Comic Spirit 
cheered us all. He was a fat, baldheaded soldier on a raft, 
probably a quartermaster-sergeant. He sprawled at his ease, lying 
face to the sun, just like a man on a holiday. A pipe stuck in 
that calm and florid face would have perfected the picture. I 
hope his sublime coolness has been rewarded. 

A similar raft, quite empty, floated by, and it is with a twinge 
of shame that I admit that I would gladly have swum to it. We 
were overcrowded, some of us had to be suppressed, and one or 
two of us were terrified. As an officer I was doing my duty, but 
as an individual I was not altogether happy ! I envied the leisure, 
the spacious ease, the care-free dignity of that fat man with a whole 
raft to himself. 

That moment passed, as did many another. I remember espe- 
cially seeing another boat with only five men on board, four rowing 
gayly past us, the fifth baling. It seemed to us a horrible injustice, 
and several of my men said so aloud. I negatived the proposition, 
however, that we should get alongside and in part transfer. AVe 
seemed all right, and it struck me as best to leave weH enough alone. 
There followed next the most dramatic period of that spectacle. 
So far the great ship had stood firm, as if anchored. We noticed 
now that she had a definite list to starboard. The angle grew 
steeper, and then suddenly her bow dropped, her stern lifted, and 
next she slid to the bottom like a diver. It was as though a liv- 
ing thing had disappeared beneath the waves. We watched her. 



238 WAR READINGS 

open-mouthed, a tightness at our hearts. We missed the comfort 
of her presence, we felt the tragedy of her surrender. In her death 
and engulfment there was a something more than human. So 
might a city built by countless hands and quick with life pass 
suddenly away. From somewhere in the middle of her bled a 
great puff of smoke, and I noticed that her deck as she stood on 
end, one half of her submerged, was bare and naked. It might 
have been a ballroom floor. We said nothing, but it was evident 
that most of us felt and thought alike. We turned now a more 
searching eye upon the strange shores that lay some five miles dis- 
tant, and upon the strange city whose central monuments fixed 
our attention. What kind of people lived there, and would they 
send us help ? we seemed to ask. But already the latter question 
was answered. A small steamer, apparently a tug, was evidently 
the forerunner of rescue. . . . 



II 

So far, absorbed by the larger drama of those hours, I have 
hardly done justice to our own personal worries and hesitations. 
To begin with, either our boat leaked, or we had omitted to re- 
place the plug which is part of a boat's equipment and the absence 
or presence of which regulates the escape of rain-water from a boat 
as it hangs on its davits. We leaked, and a rising sea added to 
this danger; for, besides taking in water from below, the big waves, 
when we met them broadside on, drenched us and filled us still 
more. To remedy this latter evil, and after discovering also that 
we were rudderless, I constituted myself coxswain of the boat. I 
stood up and shouted, "right," or "left," as the case might be, and 
the men pulled bravely. Thus, by using our oars — and though 
we lost one or two there were always sufficient — we were able to 
keep our boat head on to the waves and rise or sink with them 
instead of meeting them sideways. 

The leakage from below, however, was a far more serious matter. 
At first we tried to hold our own with an iron bucket which we had 



TORPEDOED 239 

found aboard. This helped matters, but still the water was gain- 
ing on us. We sat in it and watched it climbing. Then one of 
the men bailing dropped the bucket over the side. It was gone. 
I called him a particular kind of fool, in which opinion he certainly 
concurred; and then a happy inspiration caused me to remember 
a couple of fresh-water casks and a couple of hatchets that I had 
noticed in the boat during my second watch at daybreak. We 
fished for the casks and found one, and we fished some more and 
found a hatchet. We stove in the cask, emptied it, and began to 
bale. Then I had the luck to discover the second cask, and soon 
we had both going as hard as willing arms could fill them and throw 
the water back into the sea. 

I shall never forget the sigh of relief that went up from most 
of us as gradually we obtained the mastery over that relentless 
foe. From our waist-line, the water sank little by little to below 
our knee; and I thanked God for it. We felt safe again. Now 
there were only two things to bear in mind; firstly, we must keep 
her head on to the waves, and, secondly, we must keep on baling. 

During this critical period I made a closer acquaintance with 
my conirades. I had never seen any of them before, so I did 
not know their names or anything about them. Mentally, I 
described the more marked characters to myself, and even went 
the length of inventing nicknames. There was the Pop-Eye 
Man, for instance. He was a sailor or, rather, a member of the 
crew. He was so terrified that he shouted wild things at us and 
his eyes seemed to pop out of his head. What he yelled I neither 
knew nor cared. He made me realize that there are such things 
as cowards, and once or twice I caught myself wondering what it 
was that made him so afraid of death, so tenacious of life. Was it 
wife, children, or beer that so unmanned him? He had a beery 
look and rather a brutal, bullying manner. He is saved and is 
now probably lying hard about his confounded heroism. That 
type usually does. 

Then there was the Cocoanut-Shy Man, At village and other 
English festivals there are men who keep up a continual shouting 



240 WAR READINGS 

in a hoarse and blatant voice. They must have lungs of brass, 
and as often as not they are attached to a cocoanut-shy outfit. 
I had one such man on board. He was probably shouting to keep 
his own courage up as much as ours. 

"Three more strokes to the shore, boys!" he yelled. "Three 
more strokes ! Now all together!" And so on; and so on. He 
had a voice like a bull and made the welkin ring with encourage- 
ment and exhortation. Of course, not three nor three thousand 
strokes would have taken us to the shore. The sea, the wind, and 
our own dead weight were all against us. But still the Cocoanut- 
Shy Man, whether it was rowing or baling, worked like a man and 
encouraged others to work, and was a good fellow. 

There was the Man-Who-Nodded. He was a sailor in the 
stern. I faced him, and whenever I ordered the boat's head to 
be kept on to the waves, he nodded approval and seemed satisfied. 

Other figures come back to me, other faces. One poor Tommy 
broke a tragic silence by crossing over to me and, all tremulous, 
confessing: "I haven't got my belt, sir." Nor had he. I put him 
to baling — and bale he did I He was easily our champion. 

Beside me all the time was a boy of about eighteen, fresh from 
home, a private in the Royal Army Medical Corps. He nestled 
beside me, with large trustful eyes, like a little dog, and whatever 
I asked him to do he did quickly and implicitly. If I have any 
touch of vanity it must have been tickled by that dear lad's faith 
in me. 

There were two negroes — stokers, I believe — in the boat. They 
sat quite still, moving neither hand nor foot, a picture of resigna- 
tion. Their passive silence was monumental. A fair young fel- 
low, probably a shop assistant before the war and, I believe, a 
corporal or sergeant in the Army Service Corps, worked well and 
always with intelligence and coolness. And there was a pluck}' 
middle-aged man in the stern, who simply oozed calmness and 
confidence, though he once had me puzzled by telling me that the 
rudder was there and working as it should do. He admitted later 
that he had said this to cheer up the waverers. 



TORPEDOED 241 

The sea now, or at about this period held five good hopes for 
us. There were the two original Japanese destroyers, one Italian 
destroyer that was picking people up, and two Italian tug-boats. 
The submarine seemed to have finished for the day. My men, 
even earlier, had in part seemed to think that we were the only 
people who mattered. They had waved and yelled, and they had 
let off flares. These flares were to me a mystery and rather a 
source of laughter. Probably they formed part of our boat's 
furniture, but in broad daylight they could be of no real use and 
it was like setting fireworks off at midday. I had advocated pa- 
tience and suggested that lots of people were far worse off than we 
were, which was indeed the case. 

Now, although there were five authentic steamboats going and 
coming on the waters, the whole area in sight seemed so enormous 
and everything human on it so small, that I felt that help would 
take some time in getting to us. As a matter of fact, we survivors 
must have flecked a good many square miles of that vast carpet. 
We were a thin sprinkling, and we covered a considerable area. 
Hence it was largely a matter of luck who came first and last. And 
so I was content to wait our turn. 

It came at length in the shape of a Japanese destroyer. She 
was taking in a boat-load of survivors not fifty yards from us. And 
so, with hearts considerably lighter, we pulled toward her. We 
were on the wrong side at first, and wind and sea would have 
made our rescue from that quarter dangerous. But speedily we 
turned and came round her; she threw us a line which we caught 
and clung to; then came a rope, and our main adventure was 
over. 

The first man to get aboard was the poor devil without a life- 
belt. He did not wait to be asked. Then all my men scrambled 
up the shallow side of the destroyer, helped by the strong brown 
arms of square-built little sailormen. Those Japs were all helpful- 
ness and smiles of welcome. One or two of my own men paused 
to say, "Thank you, sir," before they left. It was nice of them, 
but I did not feel that they owed many thanks to me. I was the 



242 WAR READINGS 

last to quit our boat, and we left it drifting. God only knows 
where it is to-day. It was Number 13; and in Italy, where we 
landed, 13 is a lucky number. 



THE SOLDIER 1 

RUPERT BROOKE 



The author of this poem was an officer in the British naval service and 
died while on duty in the ^gean Sea in April, 1915. 

If I should die, think only this of me: 

That there's some corner of a foreign field 
That is forever England. There shall be 

In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; 
A. dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware. 

Gave once her flowers to love, her ways to roam, 
A body of England's breathing English air. 

Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. 

And think this heart, all evil shed away, 
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less 

Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England 
given; 
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; 
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness. 
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. 

' From "Collected Poems of Rupert Brooke." Copyright, 1915, by John Lane 
Co. Used by permission. 



THE GRAY MAILED FIST^ 

MARY ROBERTS RINEHART 

From all over this wide land to-day boys are travelling toward 
the coast, to be swallowed up in that great American mystery, the 
navy. 

Where do they go, these boys? What are they doing? How 
do they live ? True, they send home hastily scrawled post-cards, 
without a postmark, generally consisting of a single line, such as 
"The eats are fine on this ship"; or "Last night I fell out of my 
hammock twice. Gee, the deck was hard ! " 

On such crusts must the home people live. For the boy has 
entered on a new life. Always inarticulate, he is more so now 
than ever. He is getting impressions, not giving them. He is 
struggling with discipline, form, order. He is learning a new 
tongue, the language of the sea; but he cannot yet speak it. 

A certain large percentage of these boys is sent to the great 
Atlantic Fleet. The fleet takes them — raw, unseaworthy boys 
who have sailed the high seas only in a pirate bark on some inland 
pond; boys who have travelled round the world only in the public 
library; big boys and lesser boys; sunburnt boys and pale boys; 
freckled boys, farmer boys and college boys. The fleet takes 
them and makes them into men. 

Through the courtesy of the Secretary of the Navy I have 
recently been permitted to spend a few days with the Atlantic 
Fleet. Out of that unusual experience have come many impres- 
sions; much information of varied and chaotic sorts; and some 
sturdy convictions, which are that this country has put her 
afl^airs on the high seas into fine and capable hands, that the an- 
cient pride of our seagoing ancestors maj still survive in us, and 
that a boy who joins the navy is doing not only a fine thing for his 
country but a splendid thing for himself. 

1 From Saturday Evening Post, June 23, 1917. Copyright, by Curtis Publish- 
ing Co. Used by permission. 

243 



244 WAR READINGS 

Two Hooks and a Ditty-Box 

Quite suddenly, in our coast cities, we begin to see, in groups 
and alone, boys in the round cap and blue uniform of the navy, 
but without the rolling gait of the sailor. Big boys, with often a 
bit too much wrist showing below the sleeves of their blouses; fair 
boys, not yet tanned by the sea; tall boys and thin boys, and very, 
very young boys — all a trifle self-conscious, but eager and expectant. 

All their lives they have done certain things in certain accus- 
tomed ways. Now they have turned a corner, started along a 
new path. They have loved disorder as only a boy can love it; 
have hated discipline as only a boy can hate it; have worked and 
played and fought and eaten and slept as only a boy can do all 
those things. Now they must learn order and discipline, and that 
strangest thing of all to the American mind — form. 

Boys who have lived all over the house at home, who have ac- 
cumulated such things as boys gather — old bicycles, and the in- 
sides of clocks, and scarf-pins, and tattered books, and footballs, 
and post-cards, and rabbits — these boys now belong to the country; 
and they possess, for their very own, two hooks on which to swing 
their hammocks, and a ditty-box approximately one foot by two. 

For a home they have now a ship — sometimes a small patrol 
boat, but for the great majority a floating steel monster, given to 
strange terms and strange customs, such as order, neatness, polite- 
ness, regular hours, early rising and — fighting. 

Because of this last, the boy does not mind the rest. He is 
now a fighting man. Hour after hour, on the deck, he practises 
on a dummy gun, the white deck well protected lest something 
slip and scar it. In his leisure he watches over the rail, for there 
is always a chance of a submarine; or gazes at the signal men, so 
expertly waving their tiny flags; or eyes with frank envy the ship's 
gunners. Or, still struggling with the windings of his new path, 
he sits cross-legged on the deck, one of a circle round a division 
officer with a book, and learns the A-B-C of his new calling. 

The ship is a part of the great Atlantic Fleet. 



THE GRAY MAILED FIST 245 

After all, our navy is not ships. Our navy is men. Ships 
and guns are but the medium through which they work. And, 
though I shall come to ships presently, it is the personnel of the 
navy that stands out most clearly in my mind, whether it be the 
officers in their unostentatious uniforms, the marines in their 
dark-blue caps and tunics and their tight light-blue trousers, the 
Jackies in their little round hats and those odd garments which 
were designed to climb the rigging that no longer exists; or, down 
in the depths of the great ships, those other soldiers of the sea, the 
men in the engine and dynamo rooms and the repair-shops, on 
whom the ship must depend for her complicated mechanical 
life. 

A battleship containing sixty officers and eleven hundred men 
is a world in itself, self-sustaining for surprisingly long periods; 
it is a moving city plus a moving fortress. It is busy in time of 
peace; in time of war, for all its apparent quiet, its always arduous 
labors are multiplied a hundredfold. 

I had had a sort of hazy idea of going over, say, a dozen or so 
battleships from stem to stern when I planned my visit. But I 
decided to begin with the Pennsylvania. It is the newest and 
finest of all our battle fleet, and in these days, when the motor 
habit has got us all thinking in horse-power, it may mean something 
to say that its engines are 31,500 h. p.; because it takes some pro- 
pelling power to move a steel battleship that looks as big as the 
Waldorf-Astoria through the not too yielding bosom of old ocean. 

The French Mission to the United States recently visited the 
Pennsylvania. They were amazed at her size and her armament. 
But the thing that astonished them, that sent them away open- 
mouthed, was her cleanliness. Never was so white a deck — and, 
by the way, that deck is of three-inch teak-wood over steel. Never 
was such order, such gleaming brass and white paint; for the Penn- 
sylvania is an oil-burner, and oil is the cleanest fuel in the world. 
It is a problem how to dispose of waste-boxes. There are no 
furnaces to thrust them into. But they are disposed of. 

Engine-rooms deep down shone resplendent. I, who have visited 



246 WAR READINGS 

the engine-rooms of many liners and carried away quantities of 
highly expensive oil distributed on my garments, found them 
stupefyingly clean. Guns and gun-turrets, galleys, decks, cabins, 
rails, supply-rooms — all were swept and scrubbed and burnished. 

Perhaps this does not appeal to the average citizen. Perhaps 
he takes the spotlessness and order of a ship that carries eleven 
hundred men, and feeds them and clothes them and nurses them 
and teaches them — perhaps he takes the neatness for granted. But 
I am a woman, and it hurts my pride somewhat to see such efficient 
housekeeping without a woman about to superintend it. 

But here is something that may interest the average citizen: 
I never saw it being cleaned. More, I never saw even a broom or 
a duster, or a tea-towel hung out to dry; or a mop or a pail; or a 
can of brass-polish ! Yet I was over that ship from stem to stern 
and from top to bottom. 

The truth is, of course, that it is all done, Mr. Average Citizen, 
when you are settling down for two or three hours' more sleep; 
because the fleet retires early, and gets up when the early milk- 
man on shore is dropping a bottle here and there for the benefit 
of the automobile-tire makers. 

So we may know that our boys who are going to sea for the 
first time are learning cleanliness and early rising. 

At first — because I am a woman, I suppose, and because I know 
a great deal about boys — I wondered how all this clean bareness 
and order would affect the new recruits. All those boys, and not a 
dog about ! And no bureau-drawers full of beloved old neckties ! 
And no walls to pin things up on ! No cooky-jar ! No extra morn- 
ing nap ! And such excruciating personal neatness ! 

You know the story of the little boy who was going for his music- 
lesson and washed his right ear because it would be next to the 
teacher ! 

Then, after a time, I saw that this new lane, into which the 
recruit has turned, is the way of a man. He has left boyish things 
behind him. He has, strangely enough, already forgotten them. 
His mind is on guns and fighting. 



THE GRAY MAILED FIST 247 

Everywhere on the great ships I saw these new bluejackets learn- 
ing the rudiments of this new game of war. It is not so very long 
since some of them were burning their fingers with firecrackers on 
the Fourth of July. Now they were practising loading with a 
dummy gun, or in classes on the bridge were learning that boxing 
a compass does not mean putting it into a crate. They were 
learning when to stand stifily at salute; to say, "Sir," when an 
ofiicer spoke to them; and always they were watching with 
frankly curious eyes the new life going on round them ; the clutter 
of small craft that came and went; the strange and complicated 
signals by which the ships talked; the ceremony of a life that al- 
ways has been semi-isolated, and so has preserved its forms and 
its traditions as has no other in the world. 

Now the bluejacket's day begins early. At five thirty in the 
morning the bugle sounds reveille. There is no turning over in 
the hammock for another nap. And, by the way, I believe there 
is not much turning over in a sea-hammock anyhow — at least at 
the beginning. They are hung extraordinarily high; and I am 
told that on the midshipmen's cruise, when the Annapolis gradu- 
ates get their first taste of real seagoing, the night is punctuated by 
dull thuds, as one after the other the treacherous hammocks turn 
them out. 

At six thirty they commence to clean ship. This is extremely 
right and necessary, but highly painful for the ofiicers asleep be- 
low decks. 

At seven thirty there is breakfast. The cook has been up for 
hours, of course, for it takes a long time to get breakfast for more 
than a thousand men. 

At nine thirty the division officers inspect their men. I was 
present at one inspection, and this is how it appeared to one 
landsman who had never seen it before: 

Bluejackets and marines were all on deck. As the marines 
were near, I found myself engrossed with them. The marines 
were lined up and an officer stepped forward. I do not refer to 
his rank, because I do not know it. Stripes and stars mean noth- 



248 WAR READINGS 

ing to me, though I finally got to know an admiral by a story one of 
them told on himself. 

He was behind two new Jackies, when one of them said to the 
other: "Say, which is the admiral?" 

" Why, don't you know ? " demanded the other. " He's that guy 
with the anchors on the back of his neck." For the admiral's 
three stars drive the anchors far to the rear of his collar. 

After inspection and the setting-up exercises the men have drill. 
Drills in endless variety — gun-drills, boat-drills, signal and fire 
drills, clearing-ship-for-action drills. There are guns everywhere 
on a man-of-war. The long cabin of the admiral of the fleet, where 
from an orderly desk he transacts the great business of the fleet, 
is divided in two by a green curtain. From beyond that curtain, 
at stated periods, came certain sounds, the moving of men's feet, 
the staccato voice of an oflicer, the metallic click of machinery, 
followed by a small report and the hissing of compressed air. In 
the cabins of the chief of staff and of the captain of the Penn- 
sylvania at the same time the same thing was going on. 

In between drills and various instruction the men must eat. 

After a day or two on the ship it occurred to me that, though I 
had seen food in preparation in the most marvellous galleys — acres 
of jelly cake, tons of bread, electrically driven ice-cream freezers, 
a white-tile butcher's shop as spotless as a guest-room bathroom; 
and in spite of the fact that over the ship had hung at times a most 
appetizing odor of food, I had seen no place for the men to eat. 
Then I was shown how the mess-tables, between meals, are folded 
up and stowed overhead, their folding benches on top of them. 
They are brought down some fifteen minutes before meals, probably 
to a bugle-call; because everything on a ship is done by bugle. 

They are well fed, these boys of ours. And that is as it should 
be, for it is poor working and fighting on an empty stomach ! 

The play end of the fleet is well cared for. Remember, these 
are mostly boys and very young men. The average age, officers 
and men, of the fleet that went round the world was twenty-two. 
And to-day we know the psychology of play and its value. More 



THE GRAY MAILED FIST 249 

than once, when I went to the lines in France, I carried a football 
to be used behind the trenches. 

So the bluejacket goes, at specified times, to his ball grounds 
and plays excellent baseball. The navy has always encouraged 
baseball, and, from battleships to submarines, each ship's crew has 
at least one team. Very good ball it is that they play, I am told. 

" Splendid men, the marines ! " said Admiral Mayo that morn- 
ing as we stood watching at drill their businesslike precision, their 
soldierly and alert carriage. 

Just what do we know of the marines ? We begin to learn about 
them early enough, for what child has not heard of that historic 
and reckless marine named Captain Jenks, who insisted on feeding 
his horse certain grains that he could not afford? 

Most of us know the marines in about this fashion: Now and 
then we read something in the daily paper about a body of marines 
being landed somewhere, and the immediate following of peace 
and order; because peace and order follow the marines like the 
pause and hush after a cyclone. 

And, more recently, some inspired gentleman at Washington 
has devised a recruiting poster with this appeal to patriotism: 
"Tell it to the marines!" 

Living off the Country 

But we have known little more. Yet the marines are of ancient 
origin. Only British and American war-ships now carry these 
"soldiers and sailors too," organized so long ago to clear the decks 
of enemy ships, and now, as then, the trouble-hunters of the sea. 
They go everywhere, do the marines; and, due to one of those 
strange vagaries of international law so puzzling to the uniniti- 
ated, landing them in force on a foreign shore does not constitute 
an act of war. But it does constitute an act of extreme discom- 
fort to any who oppose them. Generally speaking, when the ma- 
rines land on a foreign shore the natives give up the shore and retire 
to a safe interior. 



250 WAR READINGS 

They are a highly mobile force, carrying with them practically 
all they need, including the best brand of courage in the war-mar- 
ket; each man has his packed kit ready, rubber blanket and over- 
coat and leggings, plate and knife and fork, extra shoes, and so 
on. And he sometimes carries a frying-pan, too; for the marines 
are notoriously able to live off the country. In time of need they 
have methods of acquiring what is necessary, and most of us 
know the story of the little pickaninny in the road: 

" Mammy, come and look at the soldiers coming ! " 

Mammy goes out and surveys the approaching ranks. Then, 
in shrill apprehension: 

"Them ain't soldiers, honey. Them's marines. You come 
right on in and bring that dog in with you!" 

We have something like seventeen thousand marines now. 
Those who know them wish that there were many times that 
number, though their warmest advocates will maintain that the 
seventeen thousand would be able to handle about twenty times 
their weight in German avoirdupois. 

Clear-eyed, businesslike, alert fighting men to their finger-tips, 
they are as fine a body of men as our country can produce. And 
that is a large order. 



THE SEARCHLIGHTS 1 

ALFRED NOYES 

("Political morality differs from individual morality, because there is no 
power above the state." — General von Bernhardi.) 

Shadow by shadow, stripped for fight. 
The lean black cruisers search the sea. 

Night-long their level shafts of light 
Revolve, and find no enemy. 

Only they know each leaping wave 

May hide the lightning, and their grave. 
Used by permission of the author. 



THE SEARCHLIGHTS 251 

And in the land they guard so well 

Is there no silent watch to keep? 
An age is dying, and the bell 

Rings midnight on a vaster deep. 
But over all its waves, once more 
The searchlights move, from shore to shore. 

And captains that we thought were dead. 
And dreamers that we thought were dumb. 

And voices that we thought were fled, 
Arise, and call us, and we come; 

And "Search in thine own soul," they cry; 

"For there, too, lurks thine enemy." 

Search for the foe in thine own soul. 

The sloth, the intellectual pride; 
The trivial jest that veils the goal 

For which our fathers lived and died; 
The lawless dreams, the cynic Art, 
That rend thy nobler self apart. 

Not far, not far into the night. 

These level swords of light can pierce; 
Yet for her faith does England fight 

Her faith in this our universe. 
Believing Truth and Justice draw 
From founts of everlasting law; 

The law that rules the stars, our stay. 

Our compass through the world's wide sea. 

The one sure light, the one sure way. 
The one firm base of Liberty; 

The one firm road that men have trod 

Through chaos to the throne of God. 

Therefore a Power above the State, 
The unconquerable Power, returns. 



252 WAR READINGS 

The fire, the fire that made her great 

Once more upon her altar burns. 
Once more, redeemed and healed and whole, 
She moves to the Eternal Goal. 



CAMOUFLAGE! 

WILL IRWIN 



There's a new word in the English language — and by that I 
mean the corrupt dialect of our mother tongue used in the British 
Isles, not the pure and yet improved variety current in North 
America. As soon as this war is over and Tommy resumes his 
civilian activities, the British will be getting out new editions of 
those dictionaries wherein, they vainly believe, is embalmed the 
standard English language of the world. And in the C section, 
probably without the comment of "argot" or "slang" or "collo- 
quial," or any other mark of disreputability, will appear "camou- 
flage." 

It is pronounced, at present, French fashion, like this — "cam- 
oo-fiazh," the first a being short, as in cat; the second a broader, as 
in harm. 

It had labored along for centuries, a rare and obscure French 
word, having several meanings, mostly slang. But in the theatrical 
business it signified make-up. The scene-painters of the Parisian 
theatres carried it with them to the war and fixed it in army slang; 
for just about that time the armies of Europe began to introduce 
a new branch of tactics into warfare. The aeroplane, hovering 
over battles with the eyes of a god, had arrived. It made the old- 
fashioned manoeuvres of strategy impossible. No longer was a 
general on the defensive obliged merely to guess whether his oppo- 
nent intended to attack in the centre or to try to outflank. Just 
as soon as the enemy column began to move, the news came to 

1 From Saturday Evening Post, September, 1917. Copyright, by Curtis Pub- 
lishing Co. Used by permission of the author. 



CAMOUFLAGE 253 

the other side by aeroplane. Worse, perhaps, than that — the 
aeroplane had an invidious and prying way of discovering bat- 
teries, ammunition-dumps, troop-encampments, and, when they 
were found, of directing the battery-fire that destroyed them. 

Except for keeping off the aeroplane, there was only one way to 
meet this power of the air — conceal your batteries, ammunition- 
dumps, or encampments — in short, make up the landscape, as a 
young actor, about to impersonate an old man, makes up his face 
with false whiskers, light grease-paint, and burned-match lines. 
By the first winter of the war both sides were at it. The British, 
as they worked up to efficiency, adopted the method and learned 
the word. 

Before the first anniversary of the war the best scene-painters of 
France, some of the best painters, not a few of the best physical 
scientists, were busy with the problems of concealment. Now — 
without going too deeply into the scientific aspects of the ques- 
tion — every painter knows that any color is not really a single 
color at all, but a blend of many colors. There are purples and 
mauves and violets in the grayest stretch of landscape. The colors 
of Nature are complex; and Nature, also, runs to wavy, broken, 
and blended lines. One of the first steps in the process of military 
concealment was to camouflage guns and other military works. 

The artists and scene-painters experimented, and viewed the 
results of their experiments from aeroplanes. By the end of the 
first year most of the guns and motor-transports used near the 
line had been painted after a pattern that has no equivalent in 
civihan uses. They were striped with greens, browns, dull yellows; 
sometimes with pinks and blues. But the stripes were not regular. 
All lines of union were wavy or broken. Nor did the colors meet 
each other sharply. For a little distance they were blended. The 
pattern, if pattern it can be called, resembled very remotely the 
marbling sometimes seen inside the binding of books. It looked 
more, perhaps, as though some one had poured a few bucketfuls 
of paint, hit or miss, over guns and transports. 

Though the horse has been pretty nearly counted out in this 



254 WAR READINGS 

war, he is still used sometimes in sectors of the Front where the 
army meets peculiar conditions. So the horses, also, were cam- 
ouflaged — painted with tinted whitewash, which would not afifect 
their skins, in those same irregular stripes. The results, though 
exactly what the artist expected, were a surprise to the layman. 
I myself have often passed within a rod of a painted gun and never 
noticed it until some soldier called my attention to its presence, or 
until it was fired. 

The peculiarities of the landscape were always minutely studied 
before painting operations began. So it often happens that a 
battery, shifted from one sector to a remote point, had to wait for 
a new coat of paint. Nearly invisible in the old landscape, it 
would attract attention in the new because its color value was not 
right. 

How Camekas Pierce Disguises 

The craft of camouflage went on developing; and presently the 
camoufleurs hit on one of the best protective devices in their 
bag of tricks. As the impermanent trenches of the Western Front 
became permanent war residences, the roads by which transports 
travel were all camouflaged; and not only against aeroplane ob- 
servers, but against balloons and artillery observation-posts. Now, 
as one approaches the Front, he knows that he is in the shell zone 
through the fact that his automobile is running behind a screen. 

In conditions such as prevailed at the Somme battle last au- 
tumn, when herbage, trees, and villages had been battered into one 
wilderness of mud, the road camouflage is of the color of a dirty 
gunny sack; in the green country, which now lies behind most of 
the Western Front, the color is green, interspersed, on the princi- 
ple of broken colors and lines, with brown and yellow. 

Of course such road protection does not absolutely blind the 
enemy; but it does greatly hamper him. The aeroplane, in order 
to see what is doing on that road, must get absolutely overhead. 
Long ago the enemy has mapped and plotted every foot of 
the ground behind your lines. He has the range of that road. 



CAMOUFLAGE 255 

and whenever his guns have nothing else to do they try to tear 
it up. 

But tearing up the road merely gives your working parties a 
little extra work at road-mending. What the enemy would like 
to do is to catch the road when it is full of transports. Except 
by accident he cannot do that, unless he sends up an observation- 
aeroplane to hover directly overhead and direct his batteries. And 
aeroplanes cannot be steadily detached from more important work 
for this auxiliary service. Whatever happens along that road is 
invisible to the watchers in the captive balloons and to the observa- 
tion-stations. 

The painted camouflage of guns served for a time; but the eyes 
of aerial observers became sharper with practice, and the camera 
also was called to their aid. The spur of necessity made the science 
of photography take a long jump forward. 

Within the German lines, fronting a famous French position, 
was a bit of wood. Now a wood is about the most effective piece 
of natural camouflage known to modern warfare. Its interlaced 
brown-and-green branches, blending with the prevailing brown 
and green of the ground, produce optical uncertainty. One day 
this wood was photographed and nothing suspicious was found. 
Photographed again, a brown streak showed about one of the edges. 
It was a new path, made in the night by the feet of men and 
horses. Evidently there had been a lot of trafficking about that 
wood. Further photographs showed the streak growing plainer 
and plainer. Traffic was evidently keeping up. The French, 
overnight, sent aeroplanes to bomb the wood; and an ammuni- 
tion-dump went up. 

So minute now is the search for paths, indicating spots of mili- 
tary use, that every precaution is taken to preserve the landscape. 
Sometimes the ammunition carriers and the cooks approach by a 
trench roofed with sod; but this cannot always be arranged. 



256 WAR READINGS 

Trenches and Buildings Simulated 

When snow falls the whole system of camouflage must be 
changed; for dead white is a mightily uncompromising back- 
ground, showing up the smallest shadow, and this contrast is 
stronger than the trick on vision played by any screen. The cover- 
ing has to be changed to a sohd white mat. This has the dis- 
advantage of blinding the gunners to everything except the quarter 
of the sky just before them. 

One main function of aircraft observation is to discover and 
map the enemy trench system, preparatory to an attack. In a 
general way it may be said that no general orders an attack before 
he and his subordinates, down to the captains of the line, know 
almost exactly what they are going to encounter. I learn from 
Belgium that the Germans, in preparing for an attack on a French 
or British position, have often dug an exact duplicate of the trench 
system they intended to take, and rehearsed their attacking di- 
visions for weeks beforehand. 

Now it is extremely hard to camouflage a trench. In the nature 
of things it is an aggressive piece of engineering. To defend it 
the firing must be kept up every day. Further, it must be open 
to the sky. But a trench system, as distinct from a single trench, 
may be camouflaged by digging fake trenches, so laid that they will 
seem to the military logic of the opposing intelligence department 
a part of the real trench system. The Germans, at least, have dug 
innumerable trenches of this sort. At first, they were mere trenches 
and nothing else; often they were too shallow for real use. 

The long, thin, strange world behind the lines became not only 
a world of tragedy and heroism, of noise and barbed wire, of strange, 
grotesque gashes in the earth, but also a world of illusion and fake. 
Most useful buildings were camouflaged by painting the familiar 
irregular stripes, studied to blend with the landscape, on their 
roofs. 

There has been much building in the zone of operations — sheds, 
barracks, headquarters, and the like. To go no further into detail, 



CAMOUFLAGE 257 

there has also been some fake building. The camoufleurs, expert 
scene-painters, can stretch on bare ground in an appropriately 
short time a very convincing imitation of a roof. With a few 
large domestic utensils lying about, such a house looks very realistic 
from the air. Of course it is usually camouflaged with stripes, 
but a little carelessly — and yet not too carelessly. 

Trench camouflage is another branch of the art. It is not a 
part of the war within the war between camouflage and aeroplane 
— except indirectly; for, after all, the aeroplane is the first cause 
of the locked trenches, of siege warfare on a world scale. Yet, in 
the camouflage used during day-by-day trench warfare, the art- 
ists and scene-painters of Europe have introduced some of their 
prettiest tricks. 

Only recently did I realize how much the outward appearance 
of front trenches has changed during the past year. A trench is 
a ditch with a parapet built above the earth in front. Usually 
the parapet is made of sand-bags, which stop rifle fire. Now in the 
beginning the trench-builders, taking a workmanlike pride, made 
the parapets like good brickwork, laying the bags with absolute 
regularity, carefully evening the tops. At regular intervals there 
were loopholes. The enemy, watching with high-power field- 
glasses, could spot the loopholes at once and keep up a constant 
fire on them. 

Moreover, a smoothly even top to the parapet betrays at once 
the head of a careless man; whereas, if the top be a broken, ir- 
regular line, that head, in the fleeting instant which a sniper has 
for his work, may appear a flickering shadow. Hundreds of miles 
of regular-laid old trench parapets have been torn up by night, 
under the direction of camoufleurs, and replaced by trenches more 
deceptive. 

The snipers between the lines, and the trench raiders, make up 
their persons, thus bringing the word camouflage back to its 
original meaning. Uniforms, of course, are in themselves a kind 
of camouflage. The German blue-green-gray, the Italian olive- 
gray, the French horizon blue, the British and American khaki — 



258 WAR READINGS 

are all designed for protective coloration. Perhaps, considering 
the conditions of modern warfare, the British uniform, being colored 
like mud, has been most successful of all; just as French horizon 
blue, blending so well with the distant landscape, would be best 
in open summer fighting, and just as the German uniform best suits 
all-round conditions. The camoufleurs, however, usually believe 
that all sides have made a mistake in adopting a solid color. 

In night operations, however, the white face of a Cailcasian 
man is distinctly visible under the search-lights or the flares, even 
when his uniform blends with the landscape. So those raiding 
or scouting parties who crawl out between the trenches at night, 
making that whole four-hundred-mile strip of No Man's Land a 
world of curious, secret, crawling activities, usually blacken their 
faces and hands with the standard burnt cork of the negro min- 
strel. In Gallipoli the British found that the Turkish snipers, who 
worked mainly from trees, were wearing grass-green uniforms and 
had painted their faces green. 

Trench camouflage, like the camouflage of guns, changes with 
the seasons. When snow falls on No Man's Land the faces of 
patrols need not be blackened; but, of course, blue or khaki uni- 
forms show up with fatal clearness under a search-light. Hence 
it happened, in the winter of 1915-16, that a spruce young British 
officer came into a general store in a French city near to the West- 
ern Front and asked the astonished saleslady for her best price on 
eight dozen women's night-dresses, large sizes, with nightcaps to 
match. The saleslady filled this shocking order; two nights later 
a party dressed in this outlandish costume made a very successful 
trench raid. 

Now once it happened that the French wanted to make a rapid 
military movement, a shifting of guns, transports, and troops 
along a road just behind the first-line trenches and in plain view of 
the Germans. 

The camoufleurs went to work; then the French, having dis- 
posed of hostile aeroplanes for the day, moved their troops in 
peace. There was no use for this scenery elsewhere; so the cam- 



THE GREATEST WEAPON 259 

oufleurs left it. For weeks, this being a quiet sector, the French 
used the road in a manner care-free and exultant, until the shells of 
a chance German bombardment hit the scenery and revealed the 
trick. Both sides have employed variants on this device; I im- 
agine that, with most of the theatres closed, Europe is painting 
more scenery than ever before. 

Finally the aeroplane, first cause of all this trickery, has bor- 
rowed defensive methods from its enemies and is itself taking to 
camouflage. Most aeroplanes are painted a silvery white, an ex- 
cellent general color to render them invisible against the silvery 
blue of the upper atmosphere or the silvery gray of mists. But, 
viewed from above, this color shows up plainly against the strong 
brown, blue, yellow, and green of the earth. 

Early this summer. Allied airmen began to encounter German 
planes "painted like harlequins and spotted like circus ponies," 
said a French aviator. One would have a blue wing and a yellow 
wing, with a green body; one would be polka-dotted. But al- 
ways the colors met in wavy uncertain lines, and always they were 
blended where they joined. 

All this was on the upper surface; the lower was still silvery 
white, except the black Maltese cross, which marked their na- 
tionality. So, seen from above, they blended uncertainly with the 
landscape, and from below, with the sky. 

The camoufleurs, first taking notes, from the air, on the pre- 
vailing colors of the country over which they must travel, had been 
at work. 

THE GREATEST WEAPON ^ 

THOMAS LOMAX HUNTER 

The forty-centimetre gun 

That hurls, six leagues, against the foe 

A missile weighing just a ton 

Deals not the most effective blow. 

> From Saturday Evening Post. Copyright, by Curtis Publishing Co. Used by 
permission of the author. 



260 WAR READINGS 

We thought so several years ago; 

But time has taught us better now. 
In laying adversaries low 

War's greatest weapon is the plough. 

Success in war depends, my son. 

On making corn and wheat to grow; 
And victory will by him be won 

Who hoes the most successful row. 
On those who plant and till and sow. 

And feed the swine and milk the cow. 
We must our medals now bestow — 

War's greatest weapon is the plough. 

That army quickly is undone 

Within whose rear stalks, to and fro. 
Grim Famine, fiercer than a Hun, 

With all his myrmidons of woe. 
Who neither ruth nor quarter show. 

Because it saves from these, we vow 
Our highest praise to it we owe — 

War's greatest weapon is the plough. 

l'envoi 

Captain, I must report that so 
I find the facts; no matter how 

The tides of battle ebb or flow, 

War's greatest weapon is the plough. 



RATIONS: A MATHEMATICAL PROBLEM ^ 

CAPTAIN GILBERT NOBBS 

Captain Nobbs was five weeks on the firing-line on the Somme, four 
weeks mourned as dead, and three months a prisoner of war in Germany. 
In his book he describes vividly how he planned the attack of his company 
under fire, brought his men into position, directed the charge, and fell 
wounded in the head and blinded for life. The two selections, "Rations" 
and "Saniez," taken here from his book, "On the Right of the British 
Line," illustrate his experience in helping to feed the British army and as 
a prisoner of war. 

We arrived at Rouen at 7.30 the following morning. I had to 
report to the R. T. O. by 9.30, and in the meantime 3,534 rations 
had to be cut up and distributed on the station platform among 
1,178 officers and men. 

Have you ever had such a problem as that? If not, then 
avoid it, if it ever comes your way. . . . 

Three days' rations for 1,178 officers and men, in bulk; and 
1,178 officers and men began to gather around the stack, in hun- 
gry expectancy of breakfast. 

Now to issue rations to a battalion straight from bulk is quite 
difficult enough, but to issue rations from bulk to units of various 
strengths, belonging to over fifty regiments is enough to drive any 
one crazy. 

Each man was entitled to two and one-fourth ounces of tea, 
one-fourth ounce of mustard, two and one-fourth pounds of bis- 
cuits, three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, one 
tin of bully beef, nine ounces of jam. 

Each unit had to be dealt with separately, so that each unit 
presented a mathematical problem of the most perplexing kind. 
Each unit sent up its fatigue party to draw rations, whilst I and 
several officers who had volunteered to assist me made a bold 
attempt at distribution. 

"Come along, first man, what's your regiment?" 

1 Prom " On the Right of the British Line," Copyright, 1917, by Charles Scrib- 
ner's Sons. 

261 



262 WAR READINGS 

"Manchester, sir; 59 men." 

I looked through my volume of papers to cheek his figures. 

"Quite right! Fifty-nine men." 

Fifty-nine men meant fifty-nine times two and one-fourth ounces 
of tea, one-fourth ounce of mustard, two and one-fourth pounds 
of biscuits, three-fourths pound of cheese, twelve ounces of bacon, 
one tin of bully beef, and nine ounces of jam. My brain whirls 
when I think of those problems. 

The next unit consisted of 9 men; the next of 1; then came a 
long hst of 2's, 5's, and 7's, and so on; and in each case the mathe- 
matical problem had to be worked out; and when the figuring was 
finished, the stuff had to be cut up. 

Seventy-nine pounds of cheese for the Manchesters; does any 
one know what seventy-nine pounds of cheese looks like? No 
one did; we had never seen so much cheese before in our lives. 

"Give him a whole cheese and chance it. And now tea; the 
Manchesters want one hundred and thirty-two and three-fourths 
ounces of tea. Give him about three handfuls and chance it." 

The next party consisted of 2 men. 

"Six ounces of jam for the 19 Canadians; how much is that?" 

"Nearly half a pot." 

"What are you going to put it in?" 

"Got nothing." 

"Can't have any, then." 

"Come on, next man." 

When I saw the last of that stack of food it was 11.30. We 
were hungry and tired, and we made our way to the nearest hotel, 
fervently hoping that we might never see food in bulk again. 



FOOD TO FIGHT ON^ 

L. LODIAN 

The fighting abihty of an army depends primarily on its food. 
The human body cannot create energy, but only transforms it; 
and it is the energy bottled up in such prosaic stuff as beef and 
beans that wins our battles. The food-essentials of an army are 
four — meat, bread, sugar, and tea, stated in the order of impor- 
tance, it being understood that fats are included in "meat" and 
all cereals, legumes, etc., in "bread." The "sugar" item includes 
all sugar-containing fruits, and under "tea" are counted coffee, 
chocolate, cocoa, and national beverages. 

All armies possess emergency rations. None of them is entirely 
up to the mark; and the problem is still to find an emergency 
ration which shall be passably satisfactory. For instance, the 
American article is lacking in proteins and fats; and the chocolate 
tablets which accompany it are an indifferent substitute. 

" There are three different parched maize-meal packets and three 
chocolates. The former article is but a revival of the parched 
maize-meal of the American Indians, on which they could exist 
for days when hunting or on the war-path. But even this hardy 
race finally abandoned it for the better known pemmican — dried 
chopped meat with grains mixed in, to which no straight cereal 
product can compare as a sustaining food. The German Army pea- 
sausage, or Erbswurst, has been much overpraised by those whose 
familiarity with it is scant. It is about as unsatisfactory a con- 
centrated ration as any extant, and is actually inedible when un- 
cooked, being of a nauseating, bitterish, and raw flavor. It would 
seem that an emergency ration should above all things be edible, 
as it is to provide for the not remote contingency in which cooking 
facilities are lacking." 

The finest known combination of sustaining and heating qualities 
among meat foods is a form of sausage with high fat content, called 

• Adapted by Literary Digest from an article in Scientific American. 
263 



264 WAR READINGS 

by the French hoiilet rame (chain-shot). This is also used by the 
Belgians and the; Germans. It is a winter food and is never issued 
for summer campaigning. The string is so formed that each ball 
constitutes a single substantial ration. To quote further: 

"There are more than a dozen varieties of compressed teas used 
by the Russian commissary, appearing in various forms — bar, slab, 
tablet, disk, ball, etc. One is a high-grade whole-leaf tea. Com- 
pressed tea occupies very little space and preserves well. A three- 
pound slab snugly fits the coat-pocket. The meaning of this will 
be amply demonstrated by an attempt to stow three pounds of 
loose tea into the coat-pocket without bulging. 

"The compressed rice-macaroni of oriental forces is an instant 
rice — place it in water, bring it to a boil, and it is ready to serve 
without further formalities. 

"The oat-bread in sausage-link form is still made and used by 
some of the North British troops, and is indeed a most sustaining 
breadstuff. It contains some fat seasoning and the links resem- 
ble those of pork sausage. 

"Another remarkable army food is the compressed fig coffee of 
the Central Powers, in use over a century, and with the peculiar 
advantage that it may either be utilized for food as it is or con- 
verted by infusion into a coffee-like drink, with the inevitable 
figgy flavor. The much-wrinkled, smoke-dried pears found in 
the same armies are another product made by the ton. These 
are used by the troops as a combined nutriment and corrective. 

"The Swiss army, which now and then figures in the daily 
news as fighting hard to maintain its neutrality, has but one nota- 
ble food-product — the white chocolate. This is made entirely of 
cocoa-butter and sugar, the brown residue of the bean after re- 
moval of the stearin being excluded. The moulded chocolate cake 
has the smooth, glossy, ivory-white appearance of a billiard-ball. 
A less sweet form of the white chocolate has a dried cream incor- 
porated in lieu of sugar. Both types are recognized as of food 
value superior to that of the ordinary brown chocolate ; the brown 
part is much overrated, in this respect being comparable to beef 



FOOD TO FIGHT ON 265 

extract, calves'-foot jelly, and other supposed dainties, popularly 
imagined to be highly nutritious. 

"An Italian army chocolate is in sausage-length form, put up 
in ordinary casing, while its plum-duff goes into a beef membrane. 
This is more sustaining plum-pudding than the more familiar one 
of British tradition. The Italian 'spotted dog' is made with one 
of the heavy and dark Italian wines in lieu of water and fat nut 
meats in place of ordinary shortening. 

"There is, to repeat, no entirely satisfactory emergency ration 
in use by any army, and perhaps there never will be. The nearest 
approach thereto is the simplest — just the unsalted, sun-dried, 
paper-thin meat sheets of some of the Latin-American forces. 
This is always dry and cleanly to handle, can be eaten as it is, 
and folds up compactly like brown paper. The thick article of 
the shipping supply trades is a very different and very inferior one. 

"The Asiatic soldiery have a similar sun-dried and unsalted 
meat sheeting, in smaller sizes, shaved from the round of goat, 
sheep, and pig, while certain African tribes depend upon a similar 
product of the deer and the buffalo. In every case food-value is 
high. 



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